HEN  said  he  unto  me. 
Go  thy  way, 
Weigh  me  the 

weight  of  the  fire, 
Or  measure  me  the 

blast  of  the  wind, 
Or  call  me  again 

the  day  that  is  past 

II  Esdras  IV:  5 


HIS  Yellow  Rose  Edition  of 

(Lhr  tioug  Z\$& 
is  limited  to  one  thousand 
autograph  copies 
published  at 
Pasadena  California 
on  the  15th  day  of  November 
in  the  year  1921. 
This  copy  is  No.   //-3/ 
Signed  by  the  author 
this  21th  day  ot  November  1921. 


I 


THE  LONG  AGO 

by 
J  W  WRIGHT 

Author  of  "The  Glad  World" 


Pasadena  California 

THE  VAN  ALSTYNE  COMPANY 

MCMXXI 


Copyrighted 

1915,  1916,  1917,  1920,  1921 
By  J  W  WRIGHT 


First  Edition  published  November,  1916 
Second  Edition  published  December,  1916 
Third  Edition  published  September,  1919 
Fourth  Edition  published  November,  1921 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I    The  Garden  11 

II    The  River  19 

III  Christmas  29 

IV  My  First  Sweetheart 35 

V    The  Great  Out  Doors 45 

VI    Grandmother 55 

VII    Jimmy,  The  Lamplighter 61 

VIII    The  Ancient  Omnibus 67 

IX    Butter,  Eggs,  Ducks,  Geese 75 

X    Cobbler  John 81 

XI    The  Little  White  Church 83 

XII    Grandfather  Van  Alstyne 93 

XIII  The  Rain 105 

XIV  Aunt  Em's  Farm Ill 

XV    Flies  and  Fly-traps 115 

XVI    The  Little  Old  Town 119 

XVII    School  Days 127 

XVIII    Autumnal  Activities 129 

XIX    The  County  Fair 141 

XX     Getting  in  the  Wood 151 

XXI    The  Sugar  Barrels 157 

XXII    The  Old  Bell 161 

XXIII  When  Day  is  Done _ 173 

XXIV  The  Yellow  Rose ...  ...177 


HE  day  is  done  ...  yet 
we  linger  here  at  the  win 
dow  of  the  private  office, 
alone,  in  the  early  evening. 
Street  sounds  come  surging 
up  to  us — the  hoarse  Voice 
of  the  City  —  a  confused 
blur  of  noise — clanging  trolley-cars,  rumbling 
wagons,  and  familiar  cries — all  the  varied  com 
motion  of  the  home-going  hour  when  the  city's 
buildings  are  pouring  forth  their  human  tide 
of  laborers  into  the  clogged  arteries.  We  lean 
against  the  window-frame,  looking  across  and 
beyond  the  myriad  roofs,  and  listening.  The 
world-weariness  has  touched  our  temples  with 
gray,  and  the  heaviness  of  the  day's  concerns 
and  tumult  presses  in,  presses  in,  presses  in. 
Yet  as  we  look  into  the  gentle  twilight,  the 
throbbing  street  below  slowly  changes  to  a 
winding  country  road;  the  tall  buildings  fade 
in  the  sunset  glow  until  they  become  only  huge 
elm-trees  overtopping  a  dusty  lane ;  the  trolley- 
gongs  are  softened  and  are  but  the  distant 
tinkle  of  the  homeward  herd  on  the  hills  .  .  . 
and  you  and  I  in  matchless  freedom  are  once 
more  trudging  the  Old  Dear  Road  side  by  side, 
answering  the  call  of  the  wondrous  Voice  of 
Childhood  sounding  through  the  years. 


The 
Garden 


IT  was  the  spirit  of  the  garden  that  crept 
into  my  boy-heart  and  left  its  fragrance,  to 
endure  through  the  years.  What  the  garden 
stood  for — what  it  expressed — left  a  mysterious 
but  certain  impress.  Grandmother's  touch  hal 
lowed  it  and  made  it  a  thing  apart,  and  the  rare 
soul  of  her  seemed  to  be  reflected  in  the  Lilies 
of  the  Valley  that  bloomed  sweetly  year  by  year 
in  the  shady  plot  under  her  favorite  window. 
Because  the  garden  was  her  special  province, 
it  expressed  her  own  sturdy,  kindly  nature. 

Little  wonder,  then,  that  we  cherished  it; 
that  I  loved  to  roam  idly  there  feeling  the  en- 
foldment  of  that  same  protection  and  loving- 
kindness  which  drew  me  to  the  shelter  of  her 
gingham-aproned  lap  when  the  griefs  of  Boy 
hood  pressed  too  hard  upon  me;  and  that  we; 
walked  in  it  so  contentedly  in  the  cool  of  the 
evening,  after  the  Four  O'clocks  had  folded 
their  purple  petals  for  the  night. 

11 


THE  LONG  AGO 

Grandmother's  garden,  like  all  real  gardens, 
wasn't  just  flowers  and  fragrance. 

There  was  a  brick  walk  leading  from  the 
front  gate  to  the  sitting-room  entrance — red 
brick,  all  moss-grown,  and  with  the  tiny  weeds 
and  grasses  pushing  up  between  the  bricks.  In 
the  garden  proper  the  paths  were  of  earth,  bor 
dered  and  well-defined  by  inch-wide  boards 
that  provided  jolly  tight-rope  practice  until 
grandmother  came  anxiously  out  with  her  oft- 
repeated:  "Willie,  don't  walk  on  those  boards; 
you'll  break  them  down." 

After  the  warm  spring  showers  these  earth- 
walks  always  held  tiny  mud-puddles  where  the 
rain-bleached  worms  congregated  until  the 
robins  came  that  way. 

There's  something  distinctive  and  individual 
about  the  paths  in  a  garden — they  either  "be 
long,"  or  they  do  not.  Imagine  cement  walks 
in  grandmother's  garden!  Its  walks  are  as 
much  to  a  garden  as  its  flowers  or  its  birds  or 
its  beetles,  and  express  that  dear,  indescribable 
intimacy  that  makes  the  Phlox  a  friend  and  the 
Johnny-Jump-Up  a  play-fellow. 

12 


THE  GARDEN 

High  against  the  brick  wall  stood  the  fra 
grant  white  Syringa  bush — the  tallest  bloomer 
in  the  garden  except  the  great  Red  Rose  that 
climbed  over  the  entire  side  of  the  house,  tacked 
to  it  by  strips  of  red  flannel,  and  whose  blos 
soms  were  annually  counted  and  reported  to  the 
weekly  newspaper. 

A  good  place  for  angle-worms  was  under 
the  Snowball  bush,  where  the  ground  was  cov 
ered  with  white  petals  dropped  from  the  count 
less  blossom-balls  that  made  passers-by  stop  in 
admiration. 

Still  another  good  digging-ground  was  in 
the  Lilac  corner  where  the  purple  and  white 
bushes  exhaled  their  incomparable  perfume. 
Grandmother  forbade  digging  in  the  flower 
beds — it  was  all  right  to  go  into  the  vegetable 
garden,  but  the  tender  flower-roots  must  not  be 
exposed  to  the  sun  by  ruthless  boy  hands  intent 
only  on  the  quest  of  bait. 


Into  the  lapel  of  my  dress  coat  She  fastened 
a  delicate  orchid  tonight.  It  must  have  cost  a 
pretty  penny,  at  this  season — enough,  no  doubt, 
to  buy  the  seeds  that  would  reproduce  a  half- 


"And  shining  clear  and  true    . 
I  see  her  who  was  the 
Spirit  of  the  Garden. " 


THE  GARDEN 

dozen  of  my  grandmother's  gardens.  And  as 
we  moved  away  in  the  limousine  She  asked  me 
why  I  was  so  silent.  She  could  not  know  that 
when  she  slipped  its  rare  stem  into  place  upon 
my  coat,  the  long  years  dropped  away — and  I 
stood  again  where  the  Yellow  Rose,  all  thorn- 
covered,  lifted  its  sunny  top  above  the  picket 
fence — plucked  its  choicest  blossom,  put  it  al 
most  apologetically  and  ashamed  into  the  but 
tonhole  of  my  jacket — stuffed  my  hands  into 
my  pockets  and  went  whistling  down  the  street, 
with  the  yellow  rose-tint  and  the  sunlight  and 
the  curls  on  my  child  head  all  shining  in  har 
mony.  The  first  boutonniere  of  my  life — from 
the  bush  that  became  my  confidant  through  all 
those  wondrous  years  before  they  packed  my 
trunk  and  sent  me  off  to  college. 

To  be  sure,  I  loved  the  bright-faced  Pansies 
which  smiled  cheerily  up  at  me  from  their  round 
bed — and  the  dear  old  Pinks,  of  a  strange  fra 
grance  all  their  own — and  the  Sweet  William, 
and  even  the  grewsome  Bleeding  Heart  that 
drooped  so  sad  and  forlorn  in  its  alloted  corner. 
Yet  it  is  significant  that  Her  costly  hot-house 
bloom  took  me  straight  back  over  memory's 

15 


THE  LONG  AGO 

pathway  to  that  simple  yellow  rose-bush  by  the 
fence. 


Tonight,  with  the  forgotten  orchid  in  my 
lapel,  and  all  the  weight  of  the  great  struggle 
lying  heavy  against  my  heart,  I  stand  where 
the  night-fog  veils  the  scraggly  eucalyptus,  and 
the  dense  silence  blots  out  all  the  noises  that 
have  intervened  between  the  Then  and  the 
Now — and  I  can  see  again  the  gorgeous  Peonies, 
pink  and  white,  where  they  toss  their  shaggy 
heads,  and  gather  as  of  old  the  flaming  Cock's 
Comb  by  the  little  path.  I  hear  the  honey-bees 
droning  in  the  Crab  Apple  tree  by  the  back  gate, 
and  watch  the  robins  crowding  the  branches  of 
the  Mountain  Ash,  where  the  bright  red  berries 
cluster.  I  see  the  terrible  bumble-bee  bear 
down  the  Poppy  on  its  slender  stem  and  go  buz 
zing  threateningly  away,  all  pollen-covered. 

And  shining  clear  and  true  through  the  mist 
I  see  her  who  was  the  Spirit  of  the  Garden. 
There  she  stands,  on  the  broad  step  beside  the 
bed  where  the  Lilies  of  the  Valley  grew,  leaning 
firmly  upon  her  one  crutch,  looking  out  across 
her  garden  to  each  loved  group  of  her  flower- 

16 


THE  GARDEN 

friends — smiling  upon  them  as  she  did  each  day 
through  fifty  years — turning  at  last  into  the 
house  and  taking  with  her,  in  her  heart,  the 
glory  of  the  Hollyhocks  against  the  brick  wall, 
the  perfume  of  the  Narcissus  in  the  border,  the 
wing-song  of  the  humming-bird  among  the 
Honeysuckle,  and  the  warmth  of  the  glad  June 
sunshine. 


17 


The  River 

THE  river  wasn't  a  big  river  as  I  look  back 
at  it  now,  yet  it  was  wide  and  wandering 
and  deep,  and  flowed  quietly  along  through  a 
wonderful  Middle  West  valley,  dividing  the 
Little  Old  Town  geographically  and  socially. 
Its  shores  furnished  such  a  boy  playground  as 
never  was  known  anywhere  else  in  all  the  world 
—for  it  was  a  gentle  river,  a  kindly  playfellow, 
an  understanding  friend;  and  it  seemed  to 
fairly  thrill  in  responsive  glee  when  I  plunged, 
naked  and  untamed,  beneath  the  eddying 
waters  of  the  swimming-hole  under  the  over 
hanging  wild-plum  tree. 


19 


THE  LONG  AGO 

Its  banks,  curving  in  a  semi-circle  around 
the  village,  marked  the  borders  of  the  whole 
wide  world.  There  were  other  rivers,  other  vil 
lages,  other  lands  somewhere — all  with  strange, 
queer  names — existing  only  in  the  geographies 
to  worry  little  children.  The  real  world,  and 
all  the  really,  truly  folk  and  things,  were  along 
the  far-stretching  banks  of  this  our  river. 

Down  by  the  flats,  where  a  tiny  creek  wid 
ened  to  a  miniature  swamp  and  emptied  its 
placid  waters  into  the  main  stream,  the  red 
wing  blackbirds  sounded  their  strange  cry 
among  the  cat-tails  and  the  bull-rushes,  and 
the  frogs  croaked  in  ceaseless  and  reverberant 
chorus.  There  the  catfish  were  ever  hungry 
after  dark,  and  the  night  was  broken  by  the 
glare  of  torches  along  the  little  bridge  or  in  a 
group  of  boats  where  fisher-lads  kept  close 
watch  upon  their  corks. 

Far  below  The  Dam,  where  the  changeful 
current  had  left  a  wide  sand-bar  and  a  great 
tree-trunk  stretched  its  fallen  length  across 
from  the  shore  to  the  water's  edge,  the  mud- 
turtles  basked  in  the  sunshine,  and,  at  the  ap 
proach  of  Boyhood,  glided  or  splashed  to  the 

20 


THE  RIVER 

safety  of  the  water. 

The  banks  of  the  river  were  a  deep  and 
silent  jungle  wherein  all  manner  of  wild  beasts 
and  birds  were  hunted ;  its  bosom  was  the  vasty 
deep  out  upon  which  our  cherished  argosies 
were  sent.  And  how  often  their  prows  were 
unexpectedly  turned  by  some  new  current  into 
mid-stream ;  sometimes  saved  by  an  assortment 
of  missies  breathlessly  thrown  to  the  far  side, 
to  bring  them,  wave-washed,  back  to  us;  some 
times,  alas,  swept  mercilessly  out  to  depths 
where  only  the  eye  and  childish  grief  could  fol 
low  them  over  the  big  dam  to  certain  wreckage 
in  the  whirlpools  below,  but  even  then  not  aban 
doned  until  the  shore  had  been  patrolled  for 
salvage  as  far  as  courage  held  out. 


Let's  go  back  to  the  banks  of  our  beloved 
river,  you  and  I — and  get  up  early  in  the  morn 
ing  and  run  to  the  riffles  near  the  old  cooper- 
shop  and  catch  a  bucket  of  shiners  and  chubs, 
and  then  hurry  on  to  Boomer's  dam — or  'way 
upstream  above  the  Island  where  we  used  to 
have  the  Sunday-school  picnics — or  maybe  just 
stay  at  the  in-town  dam  near  the  flour-mills  and 

21 


"...  It  was  a  gentle 
river,  a  kindly  playfellow, 
an  understanding  jriend. " 


THE  RIVER 

the  saw-mills  where  old  Shoemaker  John  used 
to  catch  so  many  big  ones — fat,  yellow  pike  and 
broad  black-bass.  We  will  climb  high  up  on 
the  mist-soaked  timbers  of  the  mill-race  and 
settle  ourselves  contentedly — with  the  spray 
moistening  our  faces  and  the  warm  sun  brown 
ing  our  hands — and  the  heavy  pounding  of  fall 
ing  waters  sounding  in  our  ears  so  melodiously 
and  so  sweetly.  Lazily,  drowsily  we'll  hold  a 
bamboo  pole  and  guide  our  shiner  through  the 
foam-crowned  eddies  of  the  whirlpool,  await 
ing  the  flash  of  a  golden  side  or  a  lusty  tug  at 
the  line;  or  dreamily  watch  a  long,  narrow 
stream  of  shavings  and  sawdust,  loosed  from 
the  opposite  planing-mill,  float  away  on  the 
current.  i 

Here,  in  the  dear  dream-days,  the  conquer 
ing  of  the  world  was  a  simple  matter;  for 
through  the  mist-prisms  that  rose  from  the 
foaming  waters  below  the  dam  only  rainbows 
could  be  seen — and  there  were  Youth  and  the 
Springtime,  and  the  new-born  flowers  and  mat 
ing  birds,  and  The  River 

And  when  the  sun  is  low  we'll  wind  our 
poles,  at  the  end  of  a  rare  day — one  that  cannot 

23 


THE  LONG  AGO 

die  with  the  sunset,  but  that  will  live  so  long  as 
Memory  is.  Tonight  we  need  not  trudge  over 
the  fields  toward  home,  in  happy  weariness,  to 
Her  who  waited  and  watched  for  us  at  the  win 
dow,  peering  through  the  gathering  dusk  until 
the  anxious  heart  was  stilled  by  the  sight  of 
tired  little  legs  dragging  down  the  street  past 
the  postoffice.  We'll  stay  here  in  the  twilight, 
and  watch  the  fire-flies  light  their  fitful  lamps, 
and  the  first  stars  blinking  through  the  after 
glow;  and  when  the  night  drops  down  see  the 
black  bats  careening  weirdly  across  the  moon. 
.  .  .  And  we'll  stretch  out  again  on  the  wild 
grass; — soothed  by  the  fragrance  of  the  May- 
apple  and  the  violets,  and  the  touch  of  the 
night-wind.  .  .  .  How  still  it  is  .  .  .  and 
The  River  doesn't  seem  to  sound  so  loud  when 
your  head's  on  the  ground — and  your  eyes  are 
closed — and  you're  listening  to  the  far,  far,  far- 
off  lullaby  of  tumbling  waters — and  you're  a  bit 
tired,  perhaps  .  .  .  a  bit  tired.  .  .  . 


Somehow  The  River  never  terrified  me. 

(It  did  mother,  however!) 

Perhaps  it  brought  no  fear  to  me  because  it 


24 


THE  RIVER 

flowed  so  gently  and  so  helpfully  through  such 
a  wonderful  valley  of  peace  and  plenty.  Even 
in  its  austere  winter  aspect,  with  its  tree-banks 
bare  of  leaves  and  its  snow-and-ice-bound  set 
ting,  it  rejoiced  me. 

Teams  of  big  horses  and  wagons  and  scores 
of  men  worked  busily  upon  its  frozen  surface, 
sawing  and  cutting  and  packing  ice  in  the  big 
wooden  houses  along  the  banks. 

Always  there  was  enough  wind  for  an  ice 
boat  or  a  skate-sail,  or  to  send  a  fellow  swiftly 
along  when  promises  to  mother  were  forgotten 
and  an  unbuttoned  coat  was  held  outstretched 
to  catch  the  breeze. 

At  night  the  torches  and  bonfires  flickered 
and  glowed  where  skaters  sent  the  merry  noises 
of  their  revelry  afloat  through  the  crisp  air  as 
they  dodged  steel-footed  in  and  out  among  the 
huts  of  the  winter  fishermen. 

Perhaps  I  loved  the  winter  river  because  I 
knew  that  beneath  its  forbidding  surface  there 
was  the  life  of  my  loved  lilies,  and  because  I 
knew  that  all  in  good  time  the  real  river — our 
river — would  be  restored  to  us  again,  alive  and 
joyous  and  unchanged. 

25 


THE  LONG  AGO 

One  day,  when  first  the  tiny  rivulets  started 
to  run  from  the  bottom  of  the  snow-drifts,  The 
River  suddenly  unloosed  its  artillery  and  the 
crisp  air  re-echoed  with  the  booming  that  pro 
claimed  the  breaking-up  of  the  ice.  Great 
crowds  of  people  thronged  the  banks,  wonder 
ing  if  the  bridge  would  go  out  or  would  stand 
the  strain  of  pounding  ice-cakes.  The  unmis 
takable  note  of  a  robin  sounded  from  some 
where.  Great  dark  spots  began  to  show  in  the 
white  ice-ribbon  that  wound  through  the  valley. 
The  air  at  sundown  had  lost  its  sting. 

Day  by  day  the  breaking-up  continued  until 
at  last  the  blessed  stream  was  clear — the  bass 
jumped  hungry  to  the  fly — the  daffodils  and  the 
violets  sprang  from  beneath  their  wet  leaf- 
blankets — and  all  the  world  joined  the  birds  in 
one  glad  song  of  emancipation  and  joy. 


Above  the  town,  just  beyond  the  red  iron 
bridge,  the  river  made  a  great  bend  and  wid 
ened  into  a  lake  where  the  banks  were  willow- 
grown,  and  reeds  and  rushes  and  grasses  and 
lily-pads  pushed  far  out  into  mid-stream,  leav 
ing  only  a  narrow  channel  of  clear  water. 

26 


THE  RIVER 

To  the  Big  Bend  our  canoe  glided  often, 
paddling  lazily  along  and  going  far  up-stream 
to  drift  back  with  the  current. 

Arms  bared  to  the  shoulder,  we  reached 
deep  beneath  the  surface  to  bring  up  the  long- 
stemmed  water-lilies — the  great  'white'  blos 
soms,  and  the  queer  little  yellow-and-black 
ones. 

Like  a  bright-eyed  sprite  the  tiny  marsh- 
wren  flitted  among  the  rushes,  and  the  musk-rat 
built  strange  reed-castles  at  the  water's  edge. 

The  lace-winged  dragon-fly  following  our 
boat  darted  from  side  to  side,  or  poised  in  air, 
or  alighted  on  the  dripping  blade  of  our  paddle 
when  it  rested  for  a  moment  across  our  knees. 

Among  the  grasses  the  wind-harps  played 
weird  melodies  which  only  Boyhood  could  in 
terpret. 

In  this  place  The  River  sang  its  love-songs, 
and  sent  forth  an  answering  note  to  the  vast 
harmonious  blending  of  blue  sky  and  golden 
day  and  incense-heavy  air  and  the  glad  songs 
of  birds. 

And  here  at  this  tranquil  bend  The  River 
seemed  to  be  the  self-same  river  of  the  old, 

27 


THE  LONG  AGO 

loved  hymn  we  sang  so  often  in  the  Little  White 
Church  on  the  Corner — that  river  which  "flows 
by  the  throne  of  God" ;  fulfilling  the  promise  of 
the  ancient  prophet  of  prophets  and  bringing 
"peace  .  .  .  like  a  river,  and  glory  .  .  . 
like  a  flowing  stream." 


28 


Christmas 

WE  always  used  grandmother's  stocking— 
because  it  was  the  biggest  one  in  the 
family,  much  larger  than  mother's,  and  some 
how  it  seemed  able  to  stretch  more  than  hers. 
There  was  so  much  room  in  the  foot,  too — a 
chance  for  all  sorts  of  packages. 

There  was  a  carpet-covered  couch  against 
the  flowered  wall  in  one  corner  of  the  parlor. 
Between  the  foot  of  it  and  the  chimney,  was 
the  door  into  our  bedroom.  I  always  hung  my 
stocking  at  the  side  of  the  door  nearest  the 
couch,  on  the  theory,  well-defined  in  my  mind 
with  each  recurring  Christmas,  that  if  by  any 
chance  Santa  Glaus  brought  me  more  than  he 
could  get  into  the  stocking,  he  could  pile  the 
overflow  on  the  couch.  And  he  always  did ! 

It  may  seem  strange  that  a  lad  who  seldom 
heard  even  the  third  getting-up  call  in  the  morn- 


29 


THE  LONG  AGO 

ing  should  have  awakened  without  any  calling 
once  a  year — or  that  his  red-night-gowned 
figure  should  have  leaped  from  the  depths  of 
his  feather  bed — or  that  he  should  have  crept 
breathless  and  fearful  to  the  door  where  the 
stocking  hung.  Notwithstanding  the  ripe  ex 
perience  of  years  past,  when  each  Christmas 
found  the  generous  stocking  stuffed  with  good 
things,  there  was  always  the  chance  that  Santa 
Glaus  might  have  forgotten,  this  year — or  that 
he  might  have  miscalculated  his  supply  and  not 
have  enough  to  go  'round — or  that  he  had  not 
been  correctly  informed  as  to  just  what  you 
wanted — or  that  some  accident  might  have  be 
fallen  his  reindeer-and-sleigh  to  detain  him  un 
til  the  grey  dawn  of  Christmas  morning  stopped 
his  work  and  sent  him  scurrying  back  to  his  toy 
kingdom  to  await  another  Yule-tide. 

And  so,  in  the  fearful  silence  and  darkness 
of  that  early  hour,  with  stilled  breath  and  heart 
beating  so  loudly  you  thought  it  would  awaken 
everyone  in  the  house,  you  softly  opened  the 
door — poked  your  arm  through — felt  around 
where  the  stocking  ought  to  be,  but  with  a  great 
sinking  in  your  heart  when  you  didn't  find  it  the 

30 


CHRISTMAS 

first  time — and  finally  your  chubby  fist  clutched 
the  misshapen,  lumpy,  bulging  fabric  that  pro 
claimed  a  generous  Santa  Glaus. 

Yes,  it  was  there ! 

That  was  enough  for  the  moment.  A  hur 
ried  climb  back  into  the  warm  bed — and  then 
interminable  years  of  waiting  until  your  attuned 
ear  caught  the  first  sounds  of  grandmother's 
dressing  in  her  nearby  bedroom,  and  the  first 
gleam  of  winter  daylight  permitted  you  to  see 
the  wondrous  stocking  and  the  array  of  pack 
ages  on  the  sofa.  It  was  beyond  human  strength 
to  refrain  from  just  one  look.  But  alas!  The 
sight  of  a  dapple-grey  rocking-horse  with  silken 
mane  and  flowing  tail  was  too  much,  and  the 
next  moment  you  were  in  the  room  with  your 
arms  around  his  arched  neck,  while  peals  of 
unrestrained  joy  brought  the  whole  family  to 
the  scene.  Then  it  was  that  mother  gathered 
you  into  her  lap,  and  wrapped  her  skirt  about 
your  bare  legs,  and  held  your  trembling  form 
tight  in  her  arms  until  you  promised  to  get 
dressed  if  they  would  open  just  one  package — 
the  big  one  on  the  end  of  the  sofa.  After  that 
there  was  always  "just  one  more,  mother, 

31 


THE  LONG  AGO 

please!"  and  by  that  time  the  base  burner  was 
warming  up  and  you  were  on  the  floor  in  the 
middle  of  the  discarded  wrapping-paper,  un 
covering  each  wondrous  package  down  to  the 
very  last — the  very,  very  last — in  the  very  toe 
of  the  stocking; — the  big  round  one  that  you 
were  sure  was  a  real  league  ball  but  which 
proved  to  be  nothing  but  an  orange ! 


There  is  a  new  high-power  motor  in  my 
garage.  It  came  to  me  yesterday^ — Christmas. 
It  is  very  beautiful,  and  it  cost  a  great  deal  of 
money,  a  very  great  deal.  If  we  were  in  the 
Little  Old  Town  it  would  take  us  all  out  to  Aunt 
Em's  farm  in  ten  minutes.  (It  always  took  her 
an  hour  to  drive  in  with  the  old  spotted  white 
mare.) 

I  am  quite  happy  to  have  this  wonderful 
new  horse  of  today,  and  there  is  some  warmth 
inside  of  me  as  I  walk  around  it  in  the  garage 
while  Henry,  its  keeper,  flicks  with  his  chamois 
every  last  vestige  of  dust  from  its  shiny  sides. 

And  yet  .  .  .  how  gladly  would  I  give  it 
up  if  only  I  could  have  been  in  my  feather  bed 
last  night — if  I  could  have  awakened  at  day- 

32 


CHRISTMAS 

break  and  crept  softly,  red-flanneled  and  bare 
footed,  to  the  parlor  door — if  I  could  have 
groped  for  grandmother's  stocking  and  felt  its 
lumpy  shape  respond  to  my  eager  touch — and 
if  I  could  have  known  the  thrill  of  that  dapple- 
grey  rocking-horse  when  I  flung  my  arms  around 
its  neck  and  buried  my  face  in  its  silken  mane ! 


33 


My  First 
Sweetheart 


YOU  think  she  was  a  bit  of  a  girl  about  my 
own  age  all  dressed  in  pretty  white  things 
and  pink  stockings  and  a  great  big  bow  of  rib 
bon  in  her  hair;  and  that  I  hung  around  her 
front  gate,  walked  to  school  with  her,  brought 
her  handsfull  of  hastily-snatched  but  conse 
crated  blossoms,  shared  my  apple  with  her,  and 
all  that  sort  of  conventional  and  childish  pro 
cedure.  Not  at  all. 

To  be  sure,  there  were  certain  children,  pos 
sibly  a  child,  who  seemed  more  worthy  than 
others  of  my  special  consideration — but  my 
attitude  toward  them,  or  her,  never  reached 
adoration  and  true  love.  It  was  well  enough 
to  meet  them,  or  her,  at  candy-pulls,  and  go  so 
far  as  to  play  clap-in-and-clap-out,  or  drop-the- 
pillow,  or  postoffice.  One  might  even  abandon 
his  fellows  to  their  rough  Hallowe'en  pranks 
or  suffer  himself  to  stay  indoors  and  make  taffy 
or  bob  apples  or  otherwise  devote  himself  to 
the  entertainment  of  them,  or  her,  out  of  re- 

36 


THE  LONG  AGO 

spect  to  the  wishes,  or  possibly  the  express  com 
mands,  of  scheming  parents.  Hayrides,  too, 
were  more  or  less  endurable  occasionally — 
when  the  holding  of  hands  was  a  measure  of 
safety  and  only  such  protection  as  any  gentle 
man  would  expect  to  offer  a  lady.  Such  affairs 
of  the  heart,  as  our  elders  misnamed  them  when 
judging  things  by  externals  and  wholly  un 
aware  of  one's  inner  feelings,  were  well  enough 
in  their  way  and  only  a  phase  of  life  to  be  met 
and  endured  and  recovered  from,  like  the 
measles  or  chicken-pox,  or  mumps. 

But  a  man's  love  was  not  a  thing  to  be  frit 
tered  away  upon  children,  no  matter  how  white 
and  pink  and  lovely  they  might  be.  It  is  only 
given  a  man  to  love  once  in  his  lifetime,  and 
when  that  supreme  passion  occurs  prematurely, 
say  at  eight  years  of  age  or  thereabouts,  it  must 
be  worthily  bestowed,  as  becomes  a  man. 

By  what  strange  whim  of  Nature  manhood 
had  been  thrust  upon  me  at  so  tender  an  age, 
I  did  not  know  and  did  not  stop  to  enquire.  I 
only  regarded  it  as  very  fortunate  for  me  that 
maturity  and  capacity  for  the  grand  passion 
had  been  bestowed  upon  me  at  the  same  mo- 

86 


MY  FIRST  SWEETHEART 

ment  that  She  came  into  my  life.  I  knew  that 
it  was  She  the  moment  we  met — love  at  first 
sight,  indeed,  and  instantaneous  capitulation. 

It  was  not  her  transcendent  personal  beauty 
that  made  me  love  her — although  I  took  great 
pride  in  that,  as  one  might  of  a  handsome  and 
creditable  possession.  I  adored  her  wonderful 
hair,  her  eyes,  her  smiling  lips,  her  every  fea 
ture — and  worshipped  and  haunted  the  ground 
she  walked  on.  It  was  her  sweet  presence,  the 
unspeakable  joy  of  her  companionship,  and  the 
certainty  that  she  reciprocated  my  love,  that 
bound  me  to  her  inextricably. 

There  were  blissful  walks  hand-in-hand  be 
side  the  close-trimmed  evergreen  hedges  that 
bordered  the  brick  walks  in  Auntie  Moak's  big 
yard — the  hedges  where  the  song-sparrow 
nested,  where  a  man  not  yet  very  tall  could,  by 
standing  on  tiptoe  and  steadied  by  Her  arm, 
look  down  into  a  nest  and  see  its  tiny  eggs  or 
its  wide-mouthed,  worm-expecting  fledglings. 
There  were  heaven-filled  hours  in  the  hammock 
under  the  shade  of  the  group  of  pine-trees  in 
the  corner — hours  of  story-telling  and  reading, 
and  of  a  manly  head  resting  so  contentedly  on 

37 


THE  LONG  AGO 

a  womanly  shoulder.  There  were  early-evening 
sittings  in  Her  lap,  and  precious  cuddling  into 
Her  arms,  and  the  warmth  of  Her  cheek  against 
one's  hair,  until  one  sighed  and  slipped  gently 
off  into  Slumberland  and  was  put  to  bed  upon 
the  couch  until  The  Folks  were  ready  to  go 
home. 

One  day  they  twitted  me,  in  her  presence, 
about  my  devotion — and  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life  I  tasted  the  bitter  cup  of  Apprehension. 

"I'm  going  to  marry  Aunt  Eliza,"  I  an 
nounced.  (She  wasn't  a  really-truly  aunt,  but 
that's  what  they  let  me  call  her.  And  it  had  a 
ring  of  possession.) 

"Why,  you  can't  do  that,  Willie,"  they  said. 
"She's  too  old  for  you.  Aunt  Eliza's  twenty, 
you're  only  eight.  You'll  never  catch  up  to 
her." 

Then  and  there  she  all  unknowingly  wrecked 
my  life. 

"But  I'll  wait  for  you,  Willie,"  she  said. 

That  settled  it.  I  rushed  to  her  arms — those 
blessed  arms  that  were  to  be  forever  my  refuge. 
In  a  few  years,  at  most,  I  would  be  a  big  man — 
big  enough  to  claim  my  promised  bride. 

38 


Then  followed  days  and  days  of  unstinted 
and  unalloyed  bliss.  She  would  wait  for  me! 
The  wedding  was  only  a  matter  of  a  short  time 
—she  "had  her  growth"  and  I  was  springing 
up  rapidly — and  soon  I  would  catch  up  to  her 
— and  she  would  wait  for  me. 

With  what  stoicism  I  tolerated  and  suffered 
myself  to  go  to  "parties"  thereafter!  Candy- 
pulls  and  such  palled  on  me.  Hallowe'en  was 
for  a  man's  deeds  only — no  more  apple-bobbing 
with  the  girls  in  the  house.  "Postoffice"  and 
"drop-the-pillow"  were  frequently  forced  upon 
me,  and  I  went  through  such  ordeals  with  more 
or  less  patience  and  some  show  of  enjoyment — 
but  my  heart  had  been  given  elsewhere  and  for 
ever,  and  what  were  all  these  pink-and-white, 
ruffled-and-ribboned  children  to  me  now 

One  afternoon  after  school,  when  I  went  to 
see  her,  I  found  another  man  there.  For  a 
moment  it  was  unbelievable.  He  was  a  hand 
some  fellow,  pretty  well  grown  as  I  could  see 
when  I  measured  him  with  my  eye,  and  appar 
ently  a  decent  sort  of  a  chap  as  appeared  when 
we  were  introduced.  At  first  I  was  undecided 
whether  to  shake  hands  with  him  or  lick  him 


39 


THE  LONG  AGO 

then  and  there  and  have  the  thing  done  with. 
A  second  glance  reassured  me — and  I  decided 
to  shake  hands.  For  after  all,  it  might  not  mean 
anything,  Itis  being  there.  We  had  a  somewhat 
strained  but  fairly  good  time  together,  the  three 
of  us,  and  I  rather  liked  the  fellow,  still  feeling 
secure  of  my  own  status. 

I  met  this  same  man  at  Aunt  Eliza's  quite 
frequently  thereafter  —  more  often  than  I 
thought  it  necessary  or  proper  for  him  to  be 
calling  on  an  engaged  woman,  especially  one 
engaged  to  me.  If  I  had  not  had  very  much 
the  start  of  him  in  the  matter  of  time,  I  should 
have  regarded  him  as  a  dangerous  rival,  but 
she  had  promised  to  wait  for  me — and  I  very 
well  knew  she  loved  me — so  what  had  I  to  fear, 
no  matter  how  big-and-good-looking  he  was? 
One  thing  I  did  not  like  at  all — he  came  from 
another  town.  Women  are  so  queer — they 
hang  a  halo  about  a  uniform,  for  instance,  or 
just  dote  on  a  chap  who  is  a  bit  wild,  or  become 
hypnotized  by  The  Man  From  Another  Town. 
But  even  this  did  not  perturb  me — and  as  the 
weeks  passed  and  She  was  still  the  same  toward 
me,  all  distrust  vanished  and  I  settled  back  into 
wedding-day  planning. 

40 


MY  FIRST  SWEETHEART 

Not  many  months  afterward  She  gathered 
me  up  into  her  lap  one  day  and  began  to  talk 
to  me  very  earnestly  about  the  Other  Man.  She 
explained  that  she  had  waited  several  years  for 
me,  but  I  wasn't  yet  ready  to  take  her,  and  she 
was  afraid  she'd  be  an  old  maid  before  I  could 
catch  up  to  her — whereas  the  Other  Man  was 
all  ready  right  then,  and  while  he  wasn't  me 
he  was  a  pretty  good  sort  and  perhaps  she'd 
better  take  him  while  she  had  the  chance  and 
make  the  best  of  it.  She  explained  it  beauti 
fully — I  could  not  have  asked  to  be  more  beau 
tifully  exterminated.  It  was  perfect  and  com 
plete.  It  was  my  first  experience  of  a  broken 
heart  and  a  blasted  faith  at  one  and  the  same 
time. 

When  She  started  to  take  down  for  me  the 
bound  volumes  of  Harper's  Weekly  that  I  usual 
ly  devoured  by  the  hour  stretched  flat  on  my 
tummy  on  the  library  floor,  I  told  her  I  guessed 
I  wouldn't  stay  any  longer  today.  I  permitted 
myself  to  be  kissed,  as  usual,  at  the  front  door, 
and  I  twined  my  arms  around  her  neck  in  the 
old  dear  way.  But  as  I  trotted  down  the  brick 
walk  toward  the  gate,  beside  the  close-trimmed 

41 


THE  LONG  AGO 

evergreen  hedge,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I 
did  not  peep  between  its  fragrant  branches  to 
find  where  the  song-sparrow  nested.  When  I 
reached  the  gate,  and  heard  the  creak  of  its 
hinges,  and  the  click  of  its  latch  as  it  swung 
shut  behind  me,  there  was  no  familiar  whistle 
on  my  lips  as  I  marched  sturdily  homeward — 
still  wondering  what  it  meant  to  say  you'd  "wait 
for  a  fellow." 

By  the  time  I  reached  the  city  park  I  had 
found  some  measure  of  comfort  in  remember 
ing  that  She  had  promised  to  give  me  an  im 
portant  place  at  the  wedding — ring-bearer,  or 
something  equally  grand. 

So  I  hunted  for  a  chippie's  nest  in  a  little 
fir-tree — and  found  one  all  filled  with  white 
eggs  spotted  with  brown  on  the  big  end.  .  .  . 
Upon  reaching  home  I  was  able  to  eat  a  little 
supper. 


Life  holds  sweethearts  many.  I  have  loved 
much — and  numerously;  and  have  been  sim 
ilarly  favored.  Necessarily,  too,  life  holds  bitter 
moments — and  I  have  not  escaped  them. 


42 


MY  FIRST  SWEETHEART 

But  there  is  no  love  like  the  love  of  eight 
for  twenty. 

And  there  is  no  bitterness  like  that  of  the 
moment  when  you  discover  that  She  cannot 
wait  for  you,  and  you  see  her  borne  away  from 
you  by  the  Man  From  Another  Town. 


43 


The  Great  Out  Doors 


YOU  remember,  early  Saturday  morning, 
you  were  standing  at  the  cookie- jar.  The 
kitchen  was  filled  with  the  fragrance  of  new- 
cooked  cakes.  Your  mouth  was  filled  with 
cookies  still  warm  and  soft.  Just  as  your  hand 
was  reaching  for  another,  a  whistle  sounded 
outside.  Your  hand  stopped — you  turned — 
then  quickly  plunged  into  the  jar  again  and  in 
an  instant  you  were  scurrying  across  the  yard 
stuffing  the  last  of  one  cookie  into  your  mouth 
and  two  others  into  your  pocket.  You  grabbed 
the  old  bamboo  fish-pole  from  its  pegs  on  the 
side  of  the  barn  and  the  can  of  worms  under 
neath  the  sidewalk,  ran  almost  breathless 
through  the  gate  to  catch  up  with  Jimmie  Jones 
who  was  waving  an  imperative  "C'mon,  hurry- 
up,  can't  chu!"  half-a-block  down  the  street. 
You  both  ran  as  fast  as  your  little  legs  would 


45 


THE  LONG  AGO 

take  you  until  breath  gave  out  or  you  reached 
the  last  house  on  the  street  and  saw  before  you 
only  the  wide  fields  and  the  big  road  and  the 
deep  woods  and  the  shining  river  sparkling  in 
the  sunlight  where  the  riffles  sang  their  joyous 
melody  of  freedom  and  the  Great  Out  Doors. 

All  day  long,  until  the  sun  sinking  low  in 
the  west  bade  you  turn  reluctant  feet  home 
ward,  you  played  with  your  countless  loved 
comrades  in  the  Big  Garden — one  with  them, 
one  of  them.  You  dived  with  the  belted  king 
fisher  into  the  depths  of  a  shady  pool,  and  swam 
underwater  with  its  fearless  minnows  and  chubs 
whose  sudden  touch  you  often  felt  upon  your 
legs.  You  climbed  with  the  squirrels  into  the 
tops  of  the  hickory-trees,  play-mates  all  in  the 
wildwood.  You  ran  with  the  cottontails  through 
the  perfumed  fields  where  the  butterflies  stag 
gered  in  the  wind.  You  stretched  on  your  back 
in  the  tall  grass,  and  between  its  waving  tops 
watched  the  white  clouds  float  across  the  blue 
sky  and  a  huge  hawk  sailing  and  dipping  and 
mounting  on  motionless  wing.  You  whistled  a 
low,  clear  note,  and  heard  the  answer  from  a 
bird-throat  in  the  thicket.  You  discovered  the 


46 


THE  GREAT  OUT  DOORS 

hiding-place  of  the  modest  yellow  violet,  and 
stretched  on  your  tummy  on  the  mossy  bank 
beside  the  brook  and  buried  your  face  in  the 
fragrance  of  the  purple  violet  bed,  lazily  swing 
ing  your  heels  in  the  air  while  the  stream-voice 
crooned  its  matchless  lullaby  and  the  wood- 
thrush  sang  to  its  mate  on  the  nest. 

Here,  in  our  Great  Garden  that  has  no  walls, 
are  Voices  that  we  know,  telling  stories  that  we 
love  in  language  we  both  speak  and  understand 
— but  there  is  no  voice  in  a  round,  flat  cake  of 
flour,  be  it  ever  so  nicely  browned,  be  it  ever  so 
soft  and  crumbly,  be  it  ever  so  thickly  sugared. 

So  if  someone  will  only  whistle,  and  start 
again  the  call  of  the  loved  voices  in  the  big  Out 
There,  how  gladly  and  how  quickly  we  will 
leave  our  voiceless  cookie-jar,  and  go ! 


You  remember,  too,  the  day  it  rained  so 
hard  mother  let  you  stay  home  from  school  and 
your  little  neighbor  came  over  and  you  had  the 
wonderful  attic  all  to  yourselves.  The  dark 
places  were  an  almost  impenetrable  jungle 
which  you  more-or-less  boldly  explored,  shoot- 

47 


THE  LONG  AGO 

ing  down  huge  elephants  with  wooden  guns  of 
your  own  make  and  trapping  fierce  tigers  in  pits 
of  your  own  imaginings. 

So  intent  were  you  in  stalking  a  particularly 
large  beast  you  had  not  noticed  that  the  rain 
had  stopped.  Suddenly,  just  as  you  were  aim 
ing  straight  between  the  eyes  of  the  onrushing 
monster  which  would  certainly  crush  you  life 
less  beneath  his  enormous  feet  if  your  aim 
failed,  the  note  of  a  bluebird  rang  through  the 
attic,  the  trill  of  a  robin  sounded  unmistakably, 
and  a  glint  of  sunshine  lightened  the  gloom. 
The  gun  fell  from  your  hands  and  clattered  to 
the  floor,  the  approaching  beast  dissolved  into 
thin  air,  and  with  it  vanished  the  Land  of  Make 
Believe,  in  the  presence  of  a  dripping  but  glad 
Reality. 

You  tumbled  noisily  downstairs  and  out  into 
the  cool  air,  in  time  to  hear  the  last  tinkling 
music  of  roof-waters  draining  into  tin  down 
spouts  and  dropping  with  hollow  resonance 
into  the  rain-barrel.  You  watched  the  purple 
martins  come  one  by  one  from  beneath  their 
sheltering  eaves  and  soar  away  into  the  misty 
air  to  join  the  circling  chimney-swifts  and  dart- 

48 


THE  GREAT  OUT  DOORS 

ing  barn-swallows  in  the  mazes  of  a  joyous  air 
dance.  You  smelled  the  pungent  and  peculiar 
fragrance  of  the  big  Lombardy  poplars,  and  the 
perfume  exhaled  from  the  white  syringa  bush 
in  the  garden.  And  even  while  the  rain-mist 
still  moistened  your  face  you  saw  the  clouds 
breaking  and  disappearing,  and  the  great  rain 
bow  arched  to  proclaim  fair  weather,  one  end 
unquestionably  resting  no  farther  away  than 
the  vegetable  garden  just  behind  the  barn. 

In  the  murky  waters  of  the  gutter,  running 
bank-full,  you  sailed  your  single-masted  argo 
sies  hastily  built  from  a  shingle  pointed  at  the 
thin  end  as  best  one  could  with  a  dull  and 
broken-blade  knife  and  limited  time  in  which 
to  catch  the  full  flood  in  the  street. 

You  hurried  to  the  big  dam  just  below  town 
to  see  your  little  river,  swollen  and  muddy,  send 
its  mighty  waters  over  the  edge  and  into  the 
foam-crowned  depths  below,  until  the  very 
ground  beneath  your  feet  shook  and  trembled 
and  quivered. 

Then  you  bounded  on  into  the  Great  Out 
Doors,  heedless  of  the  grass  that  emptied  its 
water-filled  blades  into  your  shoes;  heedless, 

49 


THE  LONG  AGO 

too,  of  the  branch  that  brushed  your  cheek  with 
its  wet  hand ;  heedless  of  everything  except  that 
the  'songs  from  countless  bird-comrades  joining 
in  one  glad  and  mighty  chorus  called  you  out, 
out,  out  from  the  sham  jungle  of  Make  Believe 
into  the  laughing,  sun-filled  field  of  Life. 

And  so,  sitting  here  tonight  in  our  prison- 
loge  seeking  on  the  Make  Believe  stage  a 
moment's  forgetfulness  of  our  own  Make  Be 
lieve  living,  we  would  gladly  exchange  the 
perfume  of  milady's  roses  for  one  after-rain 
breath  of  Lombardy  poplars ;  and  all  our  mighty 
argosies  we  send  forth  so  anxiously  upon  the 
turbulent  sea  of  the  world's  trade  we  would 
give  for  a  shingle  boat,  with  its  stick  mast,  bob 
bing  merrily  over  the  gutter-flood  in  the  street. 


The  Christmas-morning  rocking-horse  has 
been  ridden  fast  and  far.  The  pages  of  the 
picture-books  have  been  turned  forwards  and 
backwards,  and  pushed  aside.  The  shiny  en 
gine  and  train  of  cars  have  steamed  over  the 
floor  in  their  little  circle  and  lie  wrecked  and 
deserted  upon  the  carpet-roses. 

50 


THE  GREAT  OUT  DOORS 

The  base-burner  glows  red,  and  the  room  is 
close  and  stuffy.  You  press  your  nose  for  a 
moment  against  the  cold  window-pane  and  look 
out  upon  a  snow-white  world.  From  Some 
where  and  Nowhere  comes  a  call — silent,  clar 
ion,  imperative,  compelling.  Life  is  stirring, 
and  you  thrill  responsive;  the  world  of  real 
things  summons,  and  you  answer. 

You  hurry  into  cap,  mittens  and  knitted 
leggins  that  pull  on  over  your  shoes  —  and 
plunge  shouting  through  the  snow-drift  at  the 
door.  You  mould  a  snow-ball  and  hurl  it  with 
all  your  might  and  main,  anywhere,  at  anything, 
or  at  nothing  in  particular.  You  scuffle  a  path 
through  the  snow  upon  the  sidewalk,  past  the 
kitchen  and  the  meat-house  and  the  barn,  the 
first  hardy  pioneer  to  break  a  trail  across  that 
trackless  waste.  You  make  zigzags  and  curves 
over  the  white  lawn.  You  watch  the  fluffy  snow 
birds  crowd  about  the  kitchen  door  to  wait  for 
crumbs  that  grandma  never  fails  to  provide 
when  the  snow  lies  deep.  You  gather  handsfull 
of  glistening  snow-diamonds  and  toss  them  into 
the  air,  to  have  them  blown  back  into  your  face. 

You  make  a  stout  snow-man — a  fierce  bandit 


51 


THE  LONG  AGO 

to  be  attacked  with  long,  sharp  icicles  carefully 
broken  from  the  house-eaves. 

And  when  the  dusk  comes  creeping  over  the 
tree-tops  and  a  woman's  voice  calls  your  name 
from  the  doorway,  you  send  a  last  icicle  lance 
into  the  vanquished  snow-bandit,  hurl  a  last 
snow-ball  at  his  already-disfigured  head,  make 
one  final  scampering  circle  of  the  lawn  kicking 
the  snow  in  little  clouds  before  your  sturdy  legs 
> — and  bound  regretfully  into  the  vestibule  just 
as  mother  comes  with  a  broom  to  brush  you  off. 


Brother  of  mine,  man  of  the  great,  strange 
world,  shall  we  leave  our  costly  cookie-jar  of 
Today — give  up  our  feverish  life  of  Make  Be 
lieve — abandon  our  useless  heaped-up  treasure 
that  keeps  us  in  a  close  and  stuffy  prison — and 
listen  again  to  the  old  loved  Voices  calling  to 
us  as  they  called  in  the  long  ago  from  our  won 
derful  garden  in  the  Great  Out  Doors.  Perhaps 
we  shall  find  that  Something  which  lived  within 
us  then,  and  by  its  alchemy  dissolve  the  years 
until  we  live  again. 

Time's  furrows  in  the  face  are  but  the  writ 
ing  which  tells  that  we  have  strayed  and  have 
clung  too  closely  to  life's  cookie-jars  and  make- 

52 


THE  GREAT  OUT  DOORS 

believe  jungles  and  dapple-grey  rocking-horses. 
Let  the  writing  stand — each  furrow  a  deep 
badge  of  courage — but  let  us  go  back,  in  our 
hearts,  to  plunge  with  the  belted  kingfisher  into 
the  minnow's  pool;  to  lie  on  our  back  in  the 
violet-beds  and  watch  the  white  clouds  sail 
across  a  blue  sky ;  to  hear  the  song  of  the  mating 
wood-thrush ;  to  watch  the  martins  and  chimney- 
swifts  and  barn-swallows  circling  in  the  mazes 
of  their  lofty  minuet;  to  sail  our  shingle  boats 
upon  the  tumbling  gutter  stream ;  and  to  toss  a 
shower  of  snow  diamonds  into  the  air  and  feel 
them  blown  back  into  our  face. 

So  shall  we  find  that  Youth  and  Age  are  one 
and  the  same,  and  both  dwell  in  the  heart  of 
man,  and  both  are  Life.  But  only  the  heart  can 
know  it,  and  only  the  heart  can  make  it  so ;  for 
only  the  heart  can  love  a  shingle  argosy  above 
a  gilded  prow. 

Cookie-jars  and  make-believe  jungles  and 
dapple-grey  rocking-horses  ever  dwell  in  close 
and  stuffy  rooms  where  Time  chisels  deep  fur 
rows  in  men's  faces ;  but  there  are  none  such  in 
the  heart  that  throbs  responsive  to  the  bird-song 
and  the  simple  boat  on  a  rainy  tide  and  all  the 
loved  Voices  that  call  in  our  Great  Out  Doors. 

53 


Grandmother 

DO  you  remember  the  day  she  lost  her 
glasses?  My,  such  a  commotion!  Every 
body  turned  in  to  hunt  for  them.  Grandmother 
tramped  from  one  end  of  the  house  to  the  other 
— we  all  searched — upstairs  and  down — with 
no  success. 

They  weren't  in  the  big  Bible  (we  turned 
the  leaves  carefully  many  times — it  was  the 
most  likely  place).  They  weren't  in  either  of 
her  sewing  baskets,  nor  in  the  cook-book  in  the 
kitchen.  Grandfather  said  she  could  use  one 
pair  of  his  gold-bowed  ones — but  shucks !  She 
couldn't  see  with  anything  except  those  old 
steel-bowed  specs! 

And  then,  when  she  finally  sat  down  and 
said  for  the  fiftieth  time:  "I  wonder  where 
those  specs  are!"  .  .  .  and  put  the  corner  of 

55 


THE  LONG  AGO 

her  apron  to  her  eyes — I  happened  to  look  up, 
and  there  they  were —  on  the  top  of  her  head ! 
Been  there  all  the  time.  .  .  .  And  she  enjoyed 
the  joke  as  much  as  we  did — a  joke  that  went 
around  the  little  town  and  followed  her  through 
all  the  years  within  my  memory  of  her. 

Sometimes  (as  often  as  expedient),  you 
asked  her  for  a  penny — never  more,  and  then : 

"Now,  Willie,  what  do  you  want  with  a  pen 
ny?  I  haven't  got  it.  Run  along  now." 

"Aw,  Gran'ma,  don't  make  a  feller  tell  what 
he's  goin'  to  buy.  I  know  you  got  one — look'n 
see!  Please,  Gran'ma!" 

Slowly  the  wrinkled  hand  would  fumble  for 
that  skirt-pocket  which  was  always  so  hard  to 
locate — and  from  its  depths  there  would  come 
the  old  worn  leather  wallet  with  a  strap  around 
it — and  slowly,  (gee!  how  s-1-o-w-l-y), — after 
much  fumbling,  during  which  you  were  never 
sure  whether  you  were  going  to  get  it  or  not 
.  .  .  the  penny  would  come  forth  and  be 
placed  (with  seeming  reluctance)  in  the  grimy, 
dirty  boy-hand.  And  usually,  just  as  you 
reached  the  door  on  your  hurried  way  to  the 

56 


GRANDMOTHER 

nearest  candy-shop,  she  would  scare  you  almost 
stiff  by  calling  you  back,  and  say : 

"Wait  a  minute,  Willie,  I  found  another  one 
that  I  didn't  know  was  in  here!" 

And  then  you  kissed  her  wrinkled,  soft 
cheek  and  ran  away  thinking,  after  all,  grand 
mother  was  pretty  good. 

Good? 

Can  a  woman  stick  to  a  man  through  sixty- 
odd  years — and  keep  his  linen  and  his  broad 
cloth — and  bear  him  children — and  make  them 
into  fine  wives  and  husbands — and  take  them 
back  to  her  bosom  when  their  mates  turn  against 
them — and  raise  a  bunch  of  riotous  grandchil 
dren — and  manage  such  a  household  as  ours 
with  never  a  complaint — get  up  at  five  o'clock 
every  morning  and  sit  up  till  half-after  nine 
o'clock  every  night — busy  all  the  time — and 
nurse  her  own  and  other  folks'  ailments  without 
a  murmur — and  submerge  self  completely  in 
her  constant  doing  for  others — can  a  frail 
woman  so  live  for  eighty-six  years  and  be  any 
thing  less  than  good. 

And  then,  at  the  end  of  the  long  journey  she 
was  still  trudging  patiently  and  gladly  along, 

57 


THE  LONG  AGO 

side  by  side  with  Grandfather — making  less 
fuss  over  the  years-old  pain  in  her  knees  than 
we  make  now  over  a  splinter  in  a  finger — going 
daily  and  uncomplainingly  about  her  manifold 
duties. 

And  at  night,  about  an  hour  before  bedtime, 
she  would  sit  down  in  the  black-upholstered 
rocker  almost  behind  the  big  base  burner — her 
first  quiet  moment  in  all  the  long  day — head 
resting  against  the  chair's  high  back — and  doze 
and  listen  to  the  fitful  conversation  in  the  room, 
or  to  someone  reading — giving  everything,  de 
manding  nothing — as  had  been  her  wont  all  the 
long  years. 

And  Christmas  eve  .  .  .  (I'll  have  to  go 
a  bit  slow  now)  ...  On  Christmas  eve,  you 
remember,  when  out-of-doors  the  big  snow- 
flakes  were  slowly  and  softly  fluttering  down, 
grandmother  would  get  the  huge  Bible  and  her 
treasure-box  and  bring  them  up  to  the  little 
round  table  covered  with  its  red  cloth  .  .  . 
And  you'd  get  a  chair  and  come  up  close  ('cause 
you  knew  what  was  happening)  .  .  .  Then 
she  would  read  you  a  wonderful  story  out  of 
the  Bible  about  the  love  of  God  so  great  that 

58 


GRANDMOTHER 

He  sent  His  only-begotten  Son  to  be  a  Light 
unto  the  World  .  .  .  and  then  she'd  go  down 
into  that  little  old  card-board  treasure-box  and 
find  some  Christmas  carols  printed  in  beautiful 
colors  on  lace-edged  cards  folded  up  just  like  a 
fan.  She  would  look  down  at  you  over  the  top 
of  her  specs  and  tell  you  how  the  street  min 
strels  in  England  used  to  stand  out  in  the  snow 
and  sing,  and  be  brought  into  the  house  and 
given  the  fresh-brewed  beer  and  ale,  and  a  bite 
to  eat — going  from  house  to  house  all  through 
the  early  night. 

And  then  she  would  close  her  eyes  and  begin 
to  sing  the  dear  old  carols  .  .  .  with  the 
tremble  in  her  voice  .  .  .  and  tapping  on 
the  table  with  her  finger-ends  in  rhythm  .  .  . 
and  Memory's  tears  dropping  on  the  wrinkled 
cheeks  .  .  .  and  the  tremulous  voice,  still 
soft  and  sweet,  chanting: 

"God  rest  you,  merrie  gentlemen! 
Let  nothing  you  dismay; 
For  Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour, 
Was  born  on  Christmas  Day!" 

Aye  and  amen,  dear  soul'  God  rest  you — 
and  He  does! 


59 


Jimmy 
the  Lamplighter 


THE  sun  had  gone  down  behind  the  willows 
on  the  river-bank.  The  night-clouds  still 
carried  the  crimson-and-purple  of  the  late  twi 
light;  and  the  deep,  still  waters  of  the  channel 
gave  back  the  colors  and  the  gleam  of  the  first 
stars  that  heralded  the  night  .  .  .  The  mar 
tins  chattered  under  the  eaves,  scolding  some 
belated  member  of  the  clan  who  pushed  noisily 
for  a  lodging-place  for  the  night.  The  black 
bat  and  the  darting  nighthawk  were  a-wing, 
grim  spectres  of  the  dusk.  The  whip-poor-will 
was  crying  along  the  river,  and  far  up-stream 
the  loon  called  weirdly  across  the  water.  .  .  . 

A  small  boy  was  sitting  on  grandfather's 
front  steps,  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  chin  in 
his  palms,  seeing  familiar  objects  disappear  in 
the  gathering  dusk,  and  watching  the  stars  come 
out.  He  was  safe,  very  safe — for  grandfather 
had  not  gone  to  the  dining-room  yet,  and  his 
arms  could  be  reached  for  shelter  in  two  or 
three  bounds,  if  need  be.  So  it  was  very  pleas- 

61 


THE  LONG  AGO 

ant  to  sit  on  the  steps  and  see  the  little  old  town 
fold-up  its  affairs  and  settle  down  for  the  night. 

And  more  particularly  to  watch  for  Jimmy, 
the  Lamplighter. 

Far  up  the  street,  in  the  almost-dark  place, 
about  where  Cobbler  John's  shoestore  ought  to 
be,  a  point  of  light  flashed  suddenly,  flickered, 
and  then  burned  steadily — and  in  a  moment 
another,  across  the  street  .  .  .  Then  a  space 
of  black,  and  two  more  points  appeared.  Down 
the  street  they  came  in  pairs,  closely  following 
the  retreating  day. 

And  the  Little  Boy  on  the  Steps  knew  that 
it  was  Jimmy,  the  Lamplighter,  working  his 
way  swiftly  and  silently.  If  only  the  dinner- 
bell  would  delay  awhile  The  Boy  would  see  old 
Jimmy  light  the  lamp  on  grandfather's  corner, 
as  he  had  seen  him  countless  times  before. 

Then,  just  as  the  red  glow  faded  in  the  West 
and  Night  settled  down,  he  came  swinging 
sturdily  across  the  street,  his  ladder  hung  on 
his  right  shoulder.  Quickly,  unerringly  he 
placed  the  ladder  against  the  iron  post  that  sent 
its  metalic  ring  into  the  clear  night  air  as  the 
ladder  struck,  and  was  three  rounds  up  almost 

62 


JIMMY,  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

before  it  settled  into  position.  Then  a  quick 
opening  of  the  glass;  a  struggle  with  the 
matches  in  the  wind,  a  hurried  closing  of  the 
door,  one  quick  look  upward;  an  arm  through 
the  ladder  and  a  swing  to  the  shoulder — and 
Jimmy  the  Lamplighter  was  busily  (off  to  his 
next  corner. 

Once,  in  the  later  years,  he  came  with  his 
new  lighter — a  splendid  brass  affair,  with 
smooth  wood  handle,  holding  a  wax  taper  that 
flickered  fitfully  down  the  street  and  marked 
old  Jimmy's  pathway  through  the  dusk.  Al 
though  he  could  reach  up  and  turn  on  the  gas 
with  the  key-slot  at  the  end  of  the  scepter  and 
light  it  with  the  taper,  all  at  one  time,  he  ever 
carried  the  ladder — for  none  could  tell  when 
or  where  a  burner  might  need  fixing,  or  there 
would  be  other  need  to  climb  the  post  as  in  the 
days  of  the  lamp  and  sulphur-match. 

Short  of  stature,  firm  of  build,  was  old 
Jimmy.  The  night  storms  of  innumerable 
years  had  bronzed  his  skin  and  furrowed  his 
face.  Innumerable  years,  yes — for  so  faithful 
a  servant  as  old  Jimmy  the  Lamplighter  was 
not  to  be  cast  away  by  every  caprice  of  the 

63 


THE  LONG  AGO 

public  mind  which  changed  the  political  aspect 
of  the  town  council.  So  Jimmy  stayed  on 
through  the  years  and  changing  administrations 
—in  the  sultry  heat  of  the  summer  nights,  or 
breasting  his  way  through  winter's  huge  snow 
drifts,  fronting  the  wind-driven  sleet,  or  drip 
ping  through  the  spring-time  rain,  his  taper 
hugged  tight  beneath  his  thick  rubber  coat,  his 
matches  safe  in  the  depths  of  an  inside  pocket. 

And  tonight,  as  the  Boy  still  watches,  in 
memory,  old  Jimmy  on  his  rounds,  they  are  a 
bit  odd,  these  queer  old  street  lamps  that  just 
seem  to  belong  to  the  night,  after  the  garish 
blaze  of  electric  signs  and  the  great  arc-lights 
in  the  shop  windows.  Yet  it  shines  through  the 
years,  this  simple  lamp  of  the  Long  Ago,  as  it 
shone  through  the  night  of  old — a  friendly 
beacon  only,  the  modest  servant  of  an  humble 
race. 

Jimmy's  boy  Ted,  who  carried  his  father's 
ladder  and  taper  when  the  good  old  man  laid 
them  down,  now  nods  in  his  chimney-corner 
o'nights.  But  his  boy,  old  Jimmy's  grandson, 
is  still  a  lamplighter — still  illuminating  the 

64 


JIMMY,  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

streets  of  his  town,  still  turning  on  its  lamps 
when  the  loon  calls  weirdly  across  the  river  in 
the  gathering  dusk. 

He  bears  no  ladder  nor  fitful  taper — he 
dreads  no  sultry  summer  heat — he  breasts  no 
snowdrifts — he  battles  against  no  wind-driven 
sleet  and  rain. 

There  he  sits,  inside  yonder  great  brick 
building,  his  chair  tipped  back  against  the  wall, 
reading  the  evening  paper  while  the  giant 
wheels  of  the  dynamo  purr  softly  and  steadily. 
He  lowers  his  paper — looks  at  the  clock — then 
out  into  the  early  twilight  .  .  .  then  slowly 
turns  to  the  wall,  pushes  a  bit  of  a  button,  takes 
up  his  paper  again,  and  goes  on  with  his  read 
ing —  while  a  thousand  lights  burn  white 
through  the  city!  .  .  . 

Ah,  Jimmy,  Jimmy!  the  world  is  all  awry, 
man !  Your  son's  son  lights  his  thousand  lamps 
in  a  flash  that's  no  more  than  the  puff  of  wind 
that  used  to  blow  your  match  out  when  you 
stood  on  your  ladder  and  lighted  one ! 


65 


The  Ancient  Omnibus 

THE  odor  of  it  is  as  pungent  in  my  nostrils, 
as  unique  and  as  unforgettable  as  the  en 
during  smell  of  the  circus.  The  peculiar  fra 
grance  of  the  omnibus  was  like  the  old  'bus 
itself — individual,  wholly  unlike  anything  else, 
indescribable,  unmistakable,  incisive. 

After  you  had  been  away  from  the  Little 
Old  Town  for  awhile,  and  had  come  back,  the 
old  railroad  station  with  its  familiar  group  of 
idlers  did  not  specially  thrill  you  as  you  stepped 
from  the  train ;  neither  did  the  sight  of  the  town 
buildings  in  the  distance.  But  the  moment  you 
climbed  into  the  rear  of  Barney's  old  'bus,  felt 
it  sway  as  he  swung  himself  up  to  the  high  seat 

07 


THE  LONG  AGO 

and  the  impatient  horses  started  off  almost  be 
fore  he  had  landed,  and  felt  the  jar  as  he  pulled 
the  leather  strap  that  closed  the  door  with  a 
bang — and  smelled  the  ancient  perfume  of  that 
musty  old  vehicle,  you  felt  at  home!  Perhaps 
it  was  really  the  sense  of  being  so  near  home 
and  hurrying  nearer  that  made  you  feel  at 
home;  perhaps  it  was  the  familiar  figure  of  old 
Barney,  who  had  driven  you  to  and  from  the 
station  through  countless  years;  but  the  thing 
that  crystalized  your  varied  emotions  and  con 
centrated  your  scattered  feelings  into  the  one 
sensation  that  can  only  be  described  as  "feeling 
at  home"  was  the  musty  fragrance  that  greeted 
you  when  you  entered  Barney's  old  'bus. 

Its  carpet-covered  cushions,  with  the  stuffing 
sticking  through  in  places,  had  received  the 
dust  of  many  summers  and  had  been  wet  by 
the  snows  of  many  winters  sifting  through  the 
cracks  of  the  window-frames  and  the  little  red- 
and-blue-glass  panes  above.  They  had  held 
bodies  of  all  nationalities,  dressed  in  all  man 
ner  of  garments,  and  of  widely  varying  degrees 
of  cleanliness.  They  had  rested  the  feet  of 
toilers  and  idlers,  and  often  the  heads  of  sober 
folk  and  otherwise.  And  the  brushing  that 

68 


THE  ANCIENT  OMNIBUS 

Barney  gave  them  now  and  then  was  a  mere 
formality — not  enough  to  change  their  deep- 
down  nature. 

Up  in  front,  in  a  boxed  place  made  for  the 
purpose,  was  a  kerosene  lamp.  The  glass  door 
in  front  of  it  was  lettered  with  the  time  of  ar 
rival  and  departure  of  trains,  and  the  modest 
advertisement  of  the  town  jeweler.  As  the  old 
'bus  rumbled  and  swayed  and  bumped  over  the 
roads,  the  lamp  flared  and  flickered,  now  flam 
ing  high  into  its  chimney,  now  almost  jolted 
out,  and  often  it  snuffed  out  entirely  as  if  weary 
of  the  struggle  to  burn  decently  and  in  order 
over  so  rugged  a  path — as  the  lamp  of  many  a 
life  burns  through  the  long  years.  The  soot- 
dimmed  top  of  the  lamp-chimney  and  the  dingy 
glass  door  in  front,  threw  a  weird  half-light  into 
the  old  'bus  as  it  plunged  and  reeled  through 
the  black  night  under  overhanging  elm-boughs. 

The  bottom  of  the  'bus  was  straw-covered, 
with  a  layer  of  fresh  hay  on  top.  Sometimes 
the  numb  fingers  would  drop  the  nickle  in  the 
straw  instead  of  in  the  slot  of  the  fare-box  up 
front — and  it  was  "lost  and  gone  forever," 
thereafter. 


69 


THE  LONG  AGO 

Countless  feet  brought  countless  varieties 
of  dirt  through  countless  years  into  the  straw 
and  hay  on  the  floor  of  the  old  'bus.  The  top 
layer  of  hay,  and  perhaps  a  portion  off  the  top 
of  the  straw,  was  removed  occasionally — but  it 
is  doubtful  if  the  lowest  stratum  of  straw  ever 
changed  with  the  changeful  years.  As  heavy 
boots  tramped  down  the  floor-covering,  a  little 
more  straw,  then  a  little  more  hay,  was  sprin 
kled  on  top — and  it  was  clean  again. 

Little  wonder  that  the  pungent  fragrance  of 
the  old  'bus  is  wafted  across  the  intervening 
years,  unchanged,  undimmed,  unique.  The 
carpet-covered  cushions  exhuded  their  own  pe 
culiar  smell — the  smoky  oil  lamp  in  the  front 
box  gave  forth  its  kind,  different  but  no  less 
forceful — the  downtrodden  straw-and-hay  sent 
up  its  special  distilation,  not  like  anything  else 
and  of  strength  befitting  its  hard  work — and 
the  blending  of  these  smells,  together  with  to 
bacco  fumes,  produced  that  full,  rich,  ripe  and 
unanalyzable  odor  that  made  the  returning 
traveler  settle  back  into  a  corner  of  the  'bus, 
stretch  his  feet  upon  its  carpet  cushions  and 
sigh:  "Home  at  last!" 

70 


THE  ANCIENT  OMNIBUS 

Do  you  remember — or  can  you  possibly  for 
get — how  cold  that  'bus  was  in  winter?  The 
outdoors  was  cold  enough — when  it  frosted 
your  ears  and  bit  your  nose  and  whitened  Bar 
ney's  moustache  when  he  breathed.  But  it  was 
midsummer  compared  to  the  inside  of  that  old 
'bus!  The  breath  of  the  passengers  formed  a 
thick  cloud,  like  smoke.  Frost  covered  the 
window-panes  a  half-inch  thick.  The  cold  wind 
blew  in  through  window-cracks,  door-frame 
and  under  the  floor.  The  wheels  (Barney  never 
put  runners  on,  no  matter  how  fine  the  sleigh 
ing)  screeched  and  shrieked  over  the  snow- 
packed  streets  like  the  wail  of  a  lost  soul.  The 
straw,  placed  there  for  comfort  was  the  coldest 
thing  in  the  'bus,  notwithstanding  you  stamped, 
and  kicked  your  feet  together,  until  they  got  so 
cold  and  sore  that  you  couldn't  stand  it  to  have 
them  touch  each  other  again.  The  senses  be 
came  dull  and  numb — and  you  finally  huddled 
into  your  garments  expecting  to  perish  and 
careless  of  the  fact.  Just  as  you  had  given  up 
all  hope  and  were  awaiting  the  end,  you  dimly 
felt  the  horses  slow  down  to  a  walk,  heard  Bar 
ney's  sharp  command  ring  out  upon  the  frozen 

71 


THE  LONG  AGO 

air,  saw  the  horses'  heads  almost  come  into  the 
window  as  they  swung  to  make  the  turn,  and 
then  felt  the  'bus  backing,  backing,  backing 
until  .  .  .  bang  and  bump !  It  hit  the  edge 
of  the  sidewalk  a  jolt  that  almost  bounced  you 
and  your  baggage  into  the  waiting  arms  of  the 
family  on  the  porch! 

•  •*••••»••• 

When  I  come  back  from  a  trip  nowadays, 
there  is  the  big,  comfortable  touring-car  await 
ing  me,  with  Henry,  its  keeper,  silent  and  re 
spectful  and  efficient.  We  slip  away  softly  and 
noiselessly  and  evenly,  joltless  and  jarless  and 
bumpless.  If  the  winter  is  here,  Henry  has  the 
top  on  and  the  heater  going  inside,  and  Milady's 
perfume  is  in  the  cushions  and  the  window- 
hangings.  It  is  all  very  complete  and  perfect 
and  comfortable. 

Yet  somehow,  today,  I  am  wishing  that  it 
had  been  Barney  at  the  station,  coming  across 
the  platform  with  arms  outstretched  to  meet 
me,  a  grin  of  delight  on  his  bronzed  face,  the 
ring  of  deep-hearted  welcome  in  his  voice — I 
am  wishing  that  I  could  climb  up  the  back  steps 
of  the  old  'bus,  feel  it  jar  as  Barney  slammed 

72 


THE  ANCIENT  OMNIBUS 

the  door  and  sway  as  he  clambered  on  top — 
and  today  I  would  gladly  give-up  Milady's  per 
fumed  curtains  of  silk  if  I  could  fill  my  nostrils 
with  the  odor  of  Barney's  old  'bus  and  feel  that 
same  peace  and  comfort  and  joy  that  I  knew 
when  I  settled  back  on  those  carpet-covered 
seats  and  sighed:  "Home  at  last!" 


73 


Butter,  Eggs,  Ducks,  Geese 

IT  seems  mighty  convenient  to  telephone  your 
grocer  to  send  up  a  pound  of  butter  and  have 
it  come  all  squeezed  tight  into  a  nice  square- 
cornered  cardboard  box  whose  bright  and 
multi-colored  label  assures  you  that  the  butter 
has  been  properly  deodorized,  fumigated, 
washed,  sterilized,  antisepticized  and  conforms 
in  every  other  respect  to  the  Food  and  Drugs 
Act,  Serial  1762973-A.  You  read  the  label 
again  and  feel  reasonably  safe  at  meals. 

Huh!  Precious  little  grandmother  knew 
about  that  kind  of  butter! 

Hers  came  in  a  basket — a  great  big  worn- 
brown-and-shiny,  round  bottom,  willow  basket, 
hand-woven.  It  didn't  come  in  any  white-and- 
gold  delivery  wagon,  either.  It  was  delivered 

75 


THE  LONG  AGO 

by  a  round-faced,  rosy-cheeked,  gingham- 
gowned  picture  of  health,  whose  apron-strings 
barely  met  around  the  middle — for  Frau  Hum 
mel  brought  it  herself — after  having  first  milked 
the  cows  with  her  own  hands  and  wielded  the 
churning-stick  with  her  own  stout  arms.  She 
had  the  butter  all  covered  up  with  fresh,  sweet, 
white-linen  cloths — and  hand-moulded  into  big 
rolls — each  roll  wrapped  in  its  own  immaculate 
cloth — and  when  that  cloth  was  slowly  pulled 
away  so  that  grandmother  could  stick  the  point 
of  a  knife  in  the  butter  and  test  it  on  her  tongue, 
you  could  see  the  white  salt  all  over  the  roll — 
and  even  the  imprint  of  the  cloth-threads  .  .  . 
Good?  .  .  .  Why,  you  could  eat  it  without 
bread ! 

"What  else  have  you  got  today,  Mrs.  Hum 
mel?"  (Grandmother  never  could  say  "Frau" 
— and  as  if  she  didn't  know  what  else  was  in 
the  basket!) 

"Veil,  Mrs.  Van,  dere  is  meppe  some  eks, 
und  a  dook — und  also  dere  is  left  von  fine 
stuffed  geese." 

So  the  cloth  covering  was  rolled  farther 
back — and  the  3-dozen  eggs  were  gently  taken 

76 


BUTTER,  EGGS,  DUCKS,  GEESE 

out  and  put  in  the  old  tin  egg-bucket — and  just 
then  grandfather  came  in  and  lifted  tenderly 
out  of  the  basket  one  of  those  wonderful  geese 
"stuffed"  with  good  food  in  a  dark  cellar  until 
fat  enough  for  market.  .  .  .  Ever  have  a 
toothful  of  that  kind  of  goose-breast  or  second 
joint?  ...  No?  ...  Your  life  is  yet  in 
complete — you  have  something  to  live  for! 
.  .  .  Goodness  me!  I  can 't describe  it!  .  .  . 
How  can  a  fellow  tell  about  such  things  .  .  . 
It's  like— well,  it's  like  Frau  Hummel's  "stuffed" 
goose,  that's  all ! 

And  then  it  was  weighed  on  the  old  bal 
ances,  or  steels — (no,  I  don't  mean  scales!) — 
steelyards,  you  know — a  long-armed  affair  with 
a  pear-shaped  chunk  of  iron  at  one  end  and  a 
hook  at  the  other  and  a  handle  somewhere  in 
between  at  the  eenter-of-gravity,  or  some  such 
place.  .  .  .  Anyway,  they  gave  an  honest 
pound,  which  is  perhaps  another  respect  in 
which  they  were  different. 

Then  the  ducks,  too,  were  unwrapped  from 
their  white  cloths  and  weighed — usually  a  pair 
of  them — and  the  old  willow  basket  had  noth 
ing  left  but  its  bundle  of  cloths  when  Frau  Hum- 

77 


THE  LONG  AGO 

mel  started  out  again  on  her  10-mile  walk  to 
the  farm. 

Whenever  I  see  a  glassy-eyed,  feather- 
headed,  cold-storage  chicken  half  plucked  and 
discolored  hanging  in  a  present-day  butcher- 
shop  accumulating  dust — or  a  scrawny  duck 
almost  popping  through  its  skin — I  think  of 
Frau  Hummel  and  her  willow  basket.  .  .  . 

But  Frau  Hummel  isn't  here  now — and  they 
don't  build  ducks  and  geese  like  her's  any  more 
—and  her  old  willow  basket  is  probably  in 
some  collection,  while  we  use  these  machine- 
made  things  that  fall  to  pieces  when  you  acci 
dentally  stub  your  toe  against  them  in  the  cellar. 
.  .  .  We  are  hurrying  along  so  fast  that  we 
don't  see  anything  until  it's  cooked  and  served. 
.  .  .  We  just  use  the  phone  and  let  them  send 
us  any  old  thing  that  they  can  charge  on  a  bill. 

But  in  those  days  grandfather  and  grand 
mother  inspected  everything — and  it  just  had 
to  be  good — and  there  weren't  any  trusts — or 
eggs  of  various  grades  from  just  eggs  to  strictly 
fresh  eggs  and  on  down  to  eggs  guaranteed  to 
boil  without  crowing.  Every  Frau  Hummel  in 
the  country  wanted  the  Van  Alstyne  trade— 

78 


BUTTER,  EGGS,  DUCKS,  GEESE 

and  Frau  Hummel  knew  it — and  she  never 
brought  anything  to  that  back  kitchen  door  un 
less  it  was  perfect  of  its  kind. 

No  wonder  grandfather  lived  to  be  92  and 
grandmother  86 — in  good  health  and  spirits  to 
the  last! 


79 


Cobbler  John 


/COBBLER  JOHN,  master  shoe-maker  and 
V>«  mender,  and  the  greatest  fisherman  on  the 
river,  silently  pegged  boots  on  his  bench  sur 
rounded  by  his  assortment  of  knives  and  things. 
If  a  fellow  could  only  get  a  knife  as  sharp  as 
one  of  his! 

I  used  to  wonder  how  he  caught  so  many 
fish  and  such  whopping  big  ones.  He  never 
used  a  jointed  rod  or  a  reel  or  more  line  than 
the  length  of  his  ancient  bamboo  pole,  while  I 
had  every  modern  device,  even  to  three  spoon- 
hooks. 

But  now  I  think  I  understand  it. 

He  fished  just  as  he  worked — silently,  stead 
ily,  ever  fishing  to  catch  fish,  watching  every 
change  of  water  and  weather,  never  diverted 
by  some  new  bird-note  on  the  bank  or  the  faces 
and  animals  that  formed  in  the  passing  clouds. 

He  made  good  boots  because  he  punched 

81 


THE  LONG  AGO 

the  awl-holes  and  drove  home  the  wooden  pegs 
with  his  short,  strong  hammer  hour  after  hour 
while  the  daylight  lasted  and  even  into  the  early 
dusk,  stopping  only  to  scrutinize  the  incoming 
shoe-wrecks  and  make  a  price  on  the  job.  And 
so,  too,  he  fished — as  purposeful  as  he  pegged 
—and  that  was  all  he  professed  to  do — just 
work  when  he  worked  and  fish  when  he  fished. 

Perhaps,  in  the  evening,  alone  with  his  wife 
in  the  little  home,  he  practiced  on  his  slide 
trombone — but  that  was  the  spiritual  side  of 
his  nature,  well  concealed  from  all  the  world 
except  his  few  long-suffering  neighbors. 

So  day  by  day  he  kept  dropping  the  quarters 
and  half-dollars  into  his  little  tin  box,  spending 
fewer  than  he  received,  pegging  on  contentedly ; 
and  betimes  he  fished  the  river  in  the  same  way, 
doing  the  little  things  while  I  dreamed  big  ones. 

If  only  someone  had  taught  me  the  lesson  of 
Cobbler  John! 


82 


The  Little  White  Church 

IT  was  strictly  orthodox  inside,  but  not  out- 
side — for  it  had  no  steeple.  The  steeple- 
base  was  there,  but  the  spire  was  lacking — as 
were  the  spire  funds.  So  they  gave  it  a  simple 
round  dome,  put  a  bell  in  it,  and  one  day  when 
John  Hardie,  the  venerable  Scotch  sexton, 
grasped  the  new  rope  in  his  knotty  hands  and 
bent  arms  and  body  to  his  task,  the  bell  sent 
forth  its  summons,  the  congregation  filed  into 
the  building  and  began  worship  as  fervently, 
no  doubt,  as  if  the  stubby  dome  had  been  a 
high-reared  spire  over-topping  the  nearby  elms. 

The  church  was  white,  with  green  shutters. 

It  stood  on  a  corner  across  from  the  city  park 

—the  park  that  occupied  a  whole  square  and 

had  diagonal  paths  connecting  its  corners,  with 

a  wobbly  wooden  turnstile  at  each  entrance. 

83 


THE  LONG  AGO 

Sunday  morning  the  carriages  and  wagons 
came  one  by  one  and  found  each  its  place  at 
the  long  hitching-rack  or  at  one  of  the  several 
hitching-posts,  or  Dobbin  stood  in  the  shade  of 
a  tree,  a  leather  strap  snapped  into  his  bit-ring, 
and  an  iron  weight  at  the  other  end. 

Sometimes  a  trusted  animal  waited  patient 
ly,  head  down,  and  immovable,  untied  and  free 
except  for  his  own  sense  of  duty  which  fastened 
him  to  his  special  spot  more  relentlessly  than 
any  post  or  iron  disk  could  do.  No  sound  or 
movement  from  him  but  an  occasional  shiver 
under  his  blanket  in  winter  and  a  swishing  of 
his  tail  in  summer  when  the  flies  bothered,  until 
the  first  worshippers  appeared  on  the  church 
steps  after  service;  then  a  lift  of  the  head,  a 
thrusting  forward  of  his  ears,  and  one  gentle, 
happy  neigh  to  tell  that  he  had  remained  faith 
ful  to  his  trust  and  was  ready  for  home  and  his 
boxstall  in  the  barn. 

The  untied  horse  made  a  deep  impression 
upon  my  boy  mind.  There  were  so  few  of  him 
— and  I  could  not  understand  it  then.  Most  of 
the  horses  had  to  be  tied.  The  high-spirited 
ones  could  go  faster  and  looked  grander — but 

84 


THE  LITTLE  WHITE  CHURCH 

they  made  a  lot  of  trouble.  They  were  forever 
getting  the  reins  under  their  feet,  or  twisting 
around  to  see  what  was  going  on  until  they 
nearly  upset  the  buggy,  or  chewing  the  top  of 
the  hitching-post  in  spite  of  its  protective  wrap 
ping  of  wire,  or  working  their  blankets  off  onto 
the  ground.  And  the  greatest  puzzle  of  all  to 
me — then — was  that  the  high-spirited  ones  re 
ceived  the  most  flattery  and  attention,  while  the 
trusted  and  faithful  one  was  little  noticed — 
taken  as  a  matter  of  course. 

It  seemed  to  me  I'd  rather  be  an  untied 
horse — there  was  something  fine  about  being 
trusted  and  standing  with  no  other  leash  than 
a  master's  faith. 


After  service  there  was  the  hum  of  happy 
visiting  among  friends  and  neighbors — perhaps, 
only  perhaps,  to  stand  a  moment  in  the  glory 
of  a  new  shawl  or  bonnet,  a  new  suit  or  shiny 
silk  stovepipe  hat.  Some  always  wanted  to 
speak  to  the  minister,  descended  from  his  pulpit 
to  mingle  with  his  flock.  So  slowly  did  the  con 
gregation  disperse — for  the  country-folk  and 
town-people  seldom  met  except  at  church,  and 

85 


THE  LONG  AGO 

there  were  many  things  in  the  week's  life  to 
talk  about — that  impatient  Hardie,  the  sexton, 
fidgetted  with  his  keys  and  made  no  secret  of 
his  opinion  that  visiting  should  be  done  on 
week-days  and  not  keep  a  good  man  from  his 
Sunday  dinner. 

There  was  more  to  the  Little  White  Church 
than  just  a  spireless  building  with  green  shut 
ters  and  a  fervent  sermon  within.  There  was 
the  frequent  oyster  supper  of  the  Clover  Club— 
the  church's  entertainment  feature  that  welded 
the  members  into  more  or  less  social  unity,  and 
incidently,  or  chiefly,  raised  funds  to  keep 
things  going.  You  remember  those  suppers, 
don't  you — the  steaming  oyster  stew  and  a 
pickle  and  some  odds  and  ends  contributed  by 
willing  hands  and  hearts — all  for  twenty-five 
cents,  for  the  benefit  of  the  Salary  Fund.  No 
doubt  you  recited  a  "piece"  at  some  of  these 
functions,  or  sang  "Annie  Laurie"  or  "The  Last 
Rose  of  Summer,"  or  played  the  piano  or  waited 
on  table. 

Perhaps  you  can  recall  how  you  started  in 
the  Sunday-school  and  gradually  grew  into  a 
promotion  as  usher  and  passed  the  plate  for 

86 


THE  LITTLE  WHITE  CHURCH 

collection — until  you  were  finally  selected  for 
a  place  in  the  choir  and  thereby  reached  the 
very  pinnacle  of  achievement.  Will  you  ever 
forget  the  peculiar  sensation — it  would  have 
been  a  thrill  in  any  other  place  than  that  solemn 
church — as  your  shaking  knees  bore  you  uncer 
tainly  up  the  steps  to  the  choir  box,  and  you 
faced  that  assemblage  of  folk  and  for  the  first 
time  looked  down  upon  their  upturned  eyes, 
eyes  concentrated  just  upon  you — and  you  could 
almost  hear  them  whispering  to  a  neighbor  in 
the  pew:  "Well,  well!  If  that  ain't  Jamie 
Tomkins  up  there  in  the  choir,  and  him  only  a 
babe  in  arms  a  while  back!" 


And  the  Sunday-school  picnic — my,  my, 
how  the  memories  come  thronging!  I  never 
see  a  calf  in  a  pasture  that  I  don't  remember 
the  veal  loaf  of  those  Sunday-school  picnics! 
There  was  never  enough  veal  loaf — I  don't  be 
lieve  I  ever  had  enough  of  it,  or  will  ever  get 
enough — for  they  don't  make  it  quite  the  same 
now  as  it  was  then.  In  the  Sunday-school  picnic 
time  I  ever  wanted  more,  and  there  was  none. 
Today,  when  I  can  have  the  whole  loaf  if  I  want 

87 


THE  LONG  AGO 

it,  it  doesn't  taste  the  same,  and  I  don't  want  it. 
As  I  remember,  there  was  never  enough  of  any 
thing  in  those  days  and  at  those  picnics  except 
bread  and  butter — and  who  wanted  bread  and 
butter  at  a  Sunday-school  picnic!  ...  It 
seemed  to  me  that  the  day  of  the  Sunday-school 
picnic  must  have  been  always  fixed  by  the 
farmers  who  wanted  rain.  The  unfailing  coin 
cidence  of  rain-and-picnics  left  no  other  conclu 
sion  possible.  ...  I  have  tried  bravely  to 
live  down  my  resentment  toward  those  who 
dated  the  Sunday-school  picnic  on  a  rainy  day, 
and  at  the  annual  and  inevitable  insufficiency 
of  veal  loaf  in  spite  of  my  direct  suggestions  on 
the  subject — but  I  find  it  hard,  very  hard. 

Yet  shining  through  the  years  there  glows  a 
vision  that  compensates  in  generous  measure 
and  that  lives  as  vivid  and  effulgent  and  spark 
ling  today  as  it  shone  in  the  long  ago.  Right 
this  minute  I  can  feel  the  expectancy  and  thrill 
of  that  moment  when  on  Christmas  Eve  I 
pushed  and  crowded  my  way  with  innumerable 
companions  through  the  big  front  doors  of  the 
church  and  gazed  enraptured  upon  the  huge 

88 


THE  LITTLE  WHITE  CHURCH 

Christmas-tree  uplifted  from  the  platform;  its 
branches  festooned  with  yards  and  yards  of 
white  popcorn  strings;  its  green  mass  alight 
with  candles  held  by  tin  candlesticks  with  a  ball 
beneath  for  a  balance;  glittering  tinsel  spark 
ling  amid  the  cotton-snow  on  its  limbs;  pink- 
gauze,  candy-filled  stockings  dangling  every 
where — and  at  the  very  tip  of  the  tree,  almost 
touching  the  ceiling,  there  gleamed  a  wonderful 
star,  the  star  of  Bethlehem  that  lighted  the 
watchful  shepherds  on  their  pilgrimage  to  the 
blessed  cradle  in  the  manger. 

On  the  platform,  under  the  tree's  spreading 
lower  boughs,  were  large  packages,  too  weighty 
to  be  suspended.  Next  came  the  lesser  ones 
that  bent  the  twigs  where  they  were  tied;  and 
the  small  packages  that  might  be  a  watch  or  a 
ring  or  a  new  silver  dollar,  or  almost  any  cher 
ished  hope,  hung  in  tantalizing  profusion  away 
up  to  the  uppermost  branches. 

The  preliminary  "exercises"  —  recitations 
and  "pieces"  and  songs  and  such  like — were 
almost  unendurable,  with  the  possible  excep 
tion  of  "The  night  before  Christmas  when  all 
through  the  house  not  a  creature  was  stirring, 

89 


THE  LONG  AGO 

not  even  a  mouse."  Years  and  ages  and  eons 
seemed  to  pass  before  a  jingle  of  sleigh  bells 
and  a  tramping  of  feet  announced  the  arrival  of 
a  wonderful  and  really-truly  Santa  Glaus — his 
pack  on  his  back,  snow  on  his  red  coat,  and 
unquestionably  a  reindeer  sleigh  waiting  for 
him  on  the  roof  to  bear  him  on  his  way  when 
he  had  finished  his  work  with  us.  Breathless, 
rigid,  almost  tearful,  we  waited  and  watched 
as  one  by  one  the  packages  were  lifted  from 
the  floor  or  unfastened  from  the  tree  and  the 
names  they  bore  were  called  out.  Could  it  be 
possible  that  there  was  no  package  there  for 
me — that  my  name  would  not  resound  through 
that  crowded  room?  .  .  .  Suddenly  it  came 
—my  own  name — only  to  find  me  faint  with 
joy,  frozen  to  my  seat  with  the  intensity  of  my 
happiness,  until  I  revived  enough  to  feel  Aunt 
Em  poke  me  and  hear  her  say:  "Hurry,  hurry, 
Jamie,  run  along  now  quick  and  get  your 
present ! 

Christmas,  and  the  tree  on  Christmas  Eve 
at  the  Little  White  Church  on  the  Corner! 
Through  the  down-fluttering  snow-storm  of 

90 


THE  LITTLE  WHITE  CHURCH 

greetings-cards  of  Today  I  see  your  wide- 
spreading  branches  and  tapered  form  crowded 
with  love-gifts  and  glowing  with  light.  I  can 
still  feel  the  warmth  of  your  gladsome  festival 
and  taste  the  sweet  illusion  of  your  red-coated 
Santa  Claus  .  .  .  and  gleaming  through  the 
mists  that  intervene  between  the  Then  and  the 
Now,  there  blazes  aloft  in  the  dark  night  of 
things  the  Star  of  Bethlehem,  ever  leading  to 
the  manger-cradle;  ever  guiding  through  the 
hills  and  valleys  of  Galilee,  ever  pointing  the 
upward  way. 


It  is  prayer-meeting  night.  Sexton  Hardie 
has  lighted  his  lamps  and  is  sitting  in  his  far- 
back  pew,  his  head  in  his  hand,  quiet  and  wait 
ing.  One  or  two  members  of  the  choir  have 
come  in  and  taken  their  seats.  The  minister 
has  gone  up  the  steps  and  spoken  to  them,  and 
slipped  into  his  place.  But  we  will  not  go  in 
tonight — we  will  sit  here  in  the  park  across  the 
street  in  the  soft  spring  evening,  lie  down  on 
the  long  cool  grass  writh  stars  peeping  down 
upon  us  through  the  wide-spreading  branches 
of  the  elms,  and  the  lights  of  the  Little  Church 

91 


THE  LONG  AGO 

on  the  Corner  shining  through  the  night.  And 
floating  out  through  the  open  windows  we  will 
hear  that  old  familiar  hymn : 

"Yes  we'll  gather  at  the  river, 
The  beautiful,  the  beautiful  ri-i-ver, 
Gather  with  the  saints  at  the  riv-er, 
That  flows  by  the  throne  of  God." 


92 


"Here  in  our  Great  Garden  that 
has  no  walls,  are  Voices  that  we 
know,  telling  stories  that  we 
love. " 


"Grandfather  Van   Alstyne  was 
a  gentleman  of  the  old  school. " 


Grandfather  Van  Alstyne 

OF  ALL  the  playmates  of  my  child  years, 
none  lives  more  vividly  and  lovingly  in 
memory  than  my  delightful  companion,  Grand 
father  Van  Alstyne.  Companion,  indeed,  he 
was — for  his  characteristic  and  cheerful  smile 
when  I  slipped  softly  into  the  office  and  stood 
beside  him  seated  in  his  favorite  chair,  and  the 
old  affectionate  way  he  called  me  "Billy,"  a 
way  I  had  learned  to  expect  and  love,  were  the 
outward  signs  of  an  inward  bond  established 
by  a  perfect  understanding  and  a  comradeship 
of  the  spirit  which  grew  and  strengthened  not 
withstanding  the  very  considerable  discrepancy 
in  our  ages. 

Some  folks  understand  some  things;  other 
folks  understand  other  things ;  but  in  every  boy 
hood  there  is  one  rare  soul,  and  only  one,  who 
understands  all  things.  Mothers  and  fathers 
are  apt  to  be  unnecessarily  authoritative  at 
times.  Grandmothers  are  ever  nervous  and 


93 


THE  LONG  AGO 

solicitous  respecting  grandchildren.  Playmates 
are  either  inferiors  or  grudingly-admitted 
equals.  Mankind  at  large  is  usually  self- 
absorbed,  or  patronizing  of  youth  to  curry  favor 
with  parents,  and  hopelessly  uninteresting  and 
not  to  be  too  far  trusted.  But  grandfather — he 
represented  all  that  throbbing,  pulsating  Boy 
hood  required  in  a  comrade  for  all  occasions, 
a  confidant  upon  all  subjects. 

Grandfather  understood  women-folk  and 
their  frequently-mistaken  view-points  as  well 
as  I  did,  or  a  bit  better.  He,  too,  admitted  their 
virtues  and  discerned  their  frailties,  and  the 
impossibility  of  entrusting  them  with  one's  in 
nermost  secrets — especially  concerning  the  need 
of  actually  going  into  the  water  to  learn  to 
swim,  and  the  earning-power  of  a  lad  and  a 
fishpole  in  supplying  the  family  table  with 
strictly-fresh  bass  and  pike  and  the  need  of  an 
occasional  nickle  to  meet  the  pressing  demands 
of  marble-time  or  to  honorably  discharge  cer 
tain  obligations  incurred  among  one's  fellows 
during  the  visits  of  the  circus  or  at  soda-foun 
tains. 

Moreover,  grandfather  was  worldly-wise — 

94 


GRANDFATHER  VAN  ALSTYNE 

he  knew  all  things  since  the  beginning  of  time 
and  well  into  the  future,  and  was  ever  ready 
with  an  answer  or  an  explanation  that  fully  met 
each  of  countless  questions  arising  from  day  to 
day.  In  the  matter  of  silence — well,  grand 
father  was  a  man,  too,  and  could  understand 
that  there  were  certain  things  supposedly  well 
hidden  but  eventually  discovered,  which  need 
not  be  published  broadcast  in  the  household. 

And  chiefly,  perhaps,  grandfather  was  no 
believer  in  corporal  punishment — as  was  once 
made  clear  when  he  rescued  you  from  the 
avenging  slipper  of  a  woman  bent  upon  putting 
you  to  bed  before  dark  against  your  resounding 
wail  of  protest  and  your  unshakeable  grip  upon 
the  stair-rail.  This  was  only  one  of  many  proofs 
of  grandfather's  dependability — one  of  in 
numerable  circumstances  that  established  and 
cemented  a  bond  of  affectionate  understanding 
that  not  only  made  it  possible  for  you  to  survive 
the  ordeal  of  boyhood,  but  which  has  lived 
through  the  years  to  gladden  your  soul  today. 
On  his  side,  too,  there  was  a  knowledge  that 
Boyhood's  code-of-honor  could  be  depended 
upon,  and  upon  the  occasion  of  many  intimate 

95 


journeys  with  Grandfather  Van,  when  it  was 
my  privilege  to  be  his  sole  companion,  certain 
manly  confidences  were  exchanged  which  his 
trust,  imposed  so  implicitly  in  me,  even  now 
forbids  my  detailing. 

Grandfather  Van  Alstyne  was,  indeed,  a 
gentleman  of  the  old  school,  not  only  outwardly 
in  the  matter  of  personal  appearance,  but  in 
wardly  with  respect  to  principles  and  procedure. 
His  person  was  quite  worthy  the  brush  of  a 
Sargent  or  of  his  own  distinguished  country 
man,  Van  Dyke.  Dressed  invariably  in  broad 
cloth  of  the  finest  texture  and  most  costly  sort, 
his  long  coat  collared  with  black  velvet  of  the 
softest  kind  and  with  broad  lapels  rolling  down 
ward  gracefully  from  the  shoulders,  he  pre 
sented  a  notable  example  of  the  correctly- 
tailored  gentleman  of  the  period  whose  gar 
ments  were  made  strictly  with  reference  to 
endurance,  propriety  and  elegance,  with  no 
thought  other  than  to  cheerfully  and  promptly 
pay  the  good  tailor's  bill,  whatever  it  might  Fe, 
so  only  the  work  was  well  done.  The  coat's 
wide  opening  at  the  front  exposed  an  expanse 
of  immaculate  linen  garment,  far  too  handsome 

96 


GRANDFATHER  VAN  ALSTYNE 

to  be  termed  a  shirt  as  we  of  today  know  that 
article  of  apparel,  and  of  texture  so  fine  and 
delicate  that  its  ruffles  stood  in  sheer  fluffy  rows 
from  out  of  which  one  caught  an  occasional 
gleam  of  plain  gold  studs.  Around  his  throat 
was  wound  a  linen  stock,  even  more  sheer  and 
delicate  than  the  wonderful  garment  it  sur 
mounted,  and  tied  at  the  front  in  a  wide  bow 
carefully  and  lovingly  constructed  (if  I  may  use 
that  term)  by  Grandmother  Van  before  grand 
father  was  permitted  to  make  his  appearance 
for  the  day.  Upon  his  head  he  wore  a  high  silk 
hat,  with  a  broad  black  band  reaching  almost 
two-thirds  of  the  distance  from  the  rim  to  the 
crown  and  thereby  exposing  only  a  relatively 
narrow  band  of  glistening  silk  which  had  been 
painstakingly  stroked  with  his  red-plush- 
backed  brush.  His  splendid  boots,  reaching 
almost  to  the  knee,  were  topped  with  copper- 
colored  leather,  as  would  have  appeared  had 
you  been  able  to  induce  him  to  exhibit  their 
glories  in  full.  Such  portion  as  the  public  was 
privileged  to  view  was  highly  polished  and 
showed  no  seam,  very  obviously  indicating  that 
the  boots  had  been  cut  from  one  piece  of  ma- 

97 


THE  LONG  AGO 

terial — for  grandfather  had  often  assured  me 
that  no  gentleman  should  wear  a  boot  made 
otherwise  than  from  a  single  piece  of  leather. 
From  beneath  his  low-cut  waistcoat  depended 
a  watch-fob — the  watch  attached  to  it  was  a 
Liverpool  railroad  watch,  engraved  marvelously 
with  a  complete  train  of  cars-and-engine  ex 
tending  entirely  around  the  center  of  the 
timepiece,  which  had  cost  $175  in  Liverpool 
and  obtainable  at  that  low  price  only  through 
the  good  offices  of  a  friend  in  the  watch  bus 
iness,  from  whom  a  discount  had  been  secured. 
The  last  touch  needed  to  complete  this  interest 
ing  picture  was  found  in  his  rosewood  cane  with 
its  inlaid  ivoiy  handle  of  black,  worn  shiny  by 
long  use,  whose  metal  ferrule  tapped  the  bricks 
of  the  sidewalk  musically  and  rhythmically, 
indicating  no  special  need  for  the  stick  as  a 
supporting  agent,  but  carried  merely  in  con 
formity  to  a  long-continued  custom  brought 
forward  from  the  days  when  Grandfather  Van 
was  the  Beau  Brummel  of  his  burgh. 

This  scrupulous  attention  to  every  detail  of 
his  personal  appearance  was  not,  as  I  event 
ually  discovered,  mere  vanity.  It  was  only 

98 


GRANDFATHER  VAN  ALSTYNE 

character  externalized — one  way  of  expressing 
himself.  This  was  proved  to  me  gradually,  as 
I  noted  the  pervading  law  of  order  and  account 
ability  throughout  the  premises.  The  back  yard 
was  as  immaculately  clean  as  a  back  yard  could 
be ;  more  than  that,  it  was  clean.  Even  the  barn 
was  swept,  the  meat-house  floor  was  scrubbed, 
the  wooden  sidewalks  were  kept  dirt-free  in 
summer  and  snow-clear  in  winter,  and  the 
kitchen  and  dining-room  and  hallway  and  office, 
uncarpeted,  were  soap-and-watered  regularly 
and  often  by  Bridget  down  on  her  knee,s  with 
a  scrub-brush  and  a  pail  of  soft  soap.  This 
cleanliness  which  was  so  marked  a  character 
istic  was  no  mere  veneer,  of  outward  and  super 
ficial  origin.  It  came  from  within — was  a 
reflection  of  an  absolutely  clean  heart. 

(Don't  you  remember  how  that  liquid  soap, 
home  made,  spread  over  the  floor  just  ahead  of 
Bridget's  advancing  form  and  suddenly  evolved 
into  suds  under  her  powerful  brush — and  how 
she  soused  pails  of  water  over  the  floor  after 
ward — and  then  mopped  it  vigorously  and  left 
it,  while  everyone  was  excluded  from  the  room 
until  it  was  good  and  dry.  Can't  you  smell  that 

99 


THE  LONG  AGO 

newly-scrubbed  room  this  minute — a  pungent 
fragrance  of  indescribable  quality  that  floated 
through  the  whole  house.) 

Grandfather  was  not  without  a  fair  allot 
ment  of  human  frailties — but  they  were  not 
serious.  Few  persons  knew  him  or  understood 
him.  He  was  too  wise  to  trust  all  men,  too  dis 
cerning  to  confide  unreservedly  in  the  gentler 
sex — but  he  could  open  his  heart  to  a  child.  For 
at  80  he,  too,  was  a  child  in  spirit  and  only  the 
child  knew  that,  for  we  were  children  together, 
80  and  8.  Grandfather  was  called  proud,  and 
rightly.  They  meant  vanity  when  they  said 
pride,  and  perhaps  such  was  the  outward  seem 
ing.  But  they  had  not  crept  into  his  heart,  and 
the  child  had — so  the  child  knew  that  his  pride 
was  his  own  natural  and  normal  knowledge  of 
innate  cleanness  and  the  confidence  of  right 
motives.  They  said  he  was  exacting — so  he 
was;  yet  he  exacted  no  more  than  he  gave,  and 
gave  graciously  and  naturally,  as  modestly  and 
as  purposefully  as  The  River  flowed  in  its  ap 
pointed  channel  fulfilling  its  destiny.  Severe, 
they  said,  meaning  relentless — but  they  did  not 
know,  because  they  looked  at  him  only  on  the 

100 


GRANDFATHER  VAN  ALSTYNE 

outside,  that  it  was  the  severity  of  justice  and 
a  high  standard  and  not  the  arbitrary  demands 
of  a  willful  individual.  They  tell  it  still,  among 
those  who  today  remain  treading  the  paths  that 
know  him  no  more,  that  once  a  man  sat  in  his 
office  and  began  whittling  the  arm  of  his  chair. 
Seeing  it,  grandfather  arose,  went  to  his  side, 
took  out  his  knife,  and  sliced  a  piece  from  the 
fellow's  coat  collar.  And  to  the  whittler's 
wrathful  protest,  grandfather  quietly  replied: 
"If  you  whittle  my  chair,  I  shall  whittle  your 
coat."  The  manner  of  his  saying  it,  and  his 
bearing  as  he  stood,  left  little  doubt  either  of 
his  purpose  or  his  ability  to  execute  it.  The 
story  spread — and  chair-whittling  in  grand 
father's  office  became  an  obsolete  custom. 

Many  there  were  who  knew  his  unique  per 
sonality,  his  quaint  and  forceful  eccentricities, 
and  who  felt  the  quality  of  his  hospitality;  but 
few  men  and  perhaps  only  one  woman,  and  she 
but  partly,  knew  his  soul.  For  his  was  the  soul 
of  a  child — he  thought  as  a  child,  he  loved  as  a 
child,  and  he  trusted  as  a  child  when  he  trusted 
at  all.  Best  of  all  he  played  as  a  child  and  with 
one — and  it  is  in  our  playtime  that  the  heart  of 

101 


THE  LONG  AGO 

us  is  seen,  for  there  is  no  bondage  then  of  con 
vention  or  fear.  And  we  played  much  together, 
grandfather  and  I,  children  of  80  and  8. 

Vain?  Was  it  vanity  that  brought  him  to 
my  play-ground  in  the  back  yard,  where  the 
artesian  well  flowed  a  miniature  brook  from  its 
iron  pipe  across  the  yard  to  the  street-drain 
under  the  sidewalk,  and  that  made  him  sail 
boats  with  me  along  its  wet  and  muddy  banks 
until  the  water  spoiled  those  shiny  boots  and 
the  dirt  speckled  that  wonderful  broad-cloth 
and  the  breeze  and  tree-boughs  roughed  the 
shiny  silk  of  his  hat? 

Exacting?  Was  it  exacting  that  he  took  me 
on  his  knee  and  patiently  heard  my  confession 
of  depredations  upon  his  carefully-guarded 
sugar  barrels,  of  runaway  hours  on  swimming 
parties,  of  plans  for  birds'-egg  excursions  and 
unnumbered  kindred  misdemeanors,  and  that 
he  discussed  them  with  me  man  to  man,  encour 
aging  all  that  was  wholesome,  reforming  what 
was  unworthy  not  by  punishment  but  by  ban 
ishing  the  desire  to  stray?  Was  it  exacting  that 
he  weighed  in  so  fine  a  balance  the  consider 
ations  of  youth  and  accountability  and  delved 
for  motives? 

102 


GRANDFATHER  VAN  ALSTYNE 

Severe?  Was  it  severe  that  he  chose  reason 
instead  of  the  rod  with  one  who  was  seeking 
the  right  path  but  whose  careless  feet  often  led 
him  far  afield;  or  that  in  the  solemn  presence 
of  an  impressionable  child  he  chose  to  live  up 
rightly  in  the  sight  of  that  child  rather  than  fill 
his  ears  with  precept  or  sprawl  him  lap-wise 
beneath  a  descending  slipper?  Was  it  severity 
that  slipped  a  nickle  into  the  child's  chubby 
hand  and  sent  him  on  his  way  without  ever  ask 
ing  how  he  was  going  to  spend  it? 

Delightful  companion  of  the  Boy  Time  and 
the  ever  after,  we  have  not  lost  each  other  just 
because  our  hands  happen  to  have  become  dis 
engaged  here.  We  are  still  traveling  on  to 
gether,  heart  to  heart,  even  as  the  sweet  memory 
of  you  has  remained  with  me  through  the  lonely 
years.  For  there  is  no  Age  in  the  land  where 
you  and  I  met  and  played  together — where  we 
still  live  and  will  ever  live  in  that  heart-bond 
that  in  my  Twilight  brings  back  to  me  the  tex 
ture  of  your  wonderful  broadcloth  coat,  the 
sheerness  of  your  marvelous  linen,  the  tapping 
of  your  rosewood  cane  upon  the  walk  as  we  go 

103 


THE  LONG  AGO 

hand  in  hand  toward  the  candy-shop,  the  pre 
cious  comfort  of  your  knees  and  encircling  arms 
and  the  sweet  presence  and  quietness  and  glory 
of  your  upright,  unafraid  and  unselfed  life. 


104 


ODD 
ODD 
ODD 


The  Rain 


LJ 


IT  is  early,  and  Saturday  morning — very,  very 
early. 

Listen !  .  .  .  An  unmistakable  drip,  drip, 
drip  .  .  .  and  the  room  is  dark. 

A  bound  out  of  bed — a  quick  step  to  the 
window — an  anxious  peering  through  the  wet 
panes  .  .  .  and  the  confirmation  is  complete. 

It  is  raining — and  on  Saturday;  the  familiar 
leaden  skies  and  steady  drip  that  spell  perma 
nency  and  send  the  robin  to  the  shelter  of  some 
thick  bush,  and  leave  only  an  occasional  un 
daunted  swallow  cleaving  the  air  on  swift  wing. 

In  all  the  world  there  is  no  sadness  like  that 
which  in  boyhood  sends  you  back  to  bed  on 
Saturday  morning  with  the  mournful  drip,  drip, 
drip  of  a  steady  rain  doling  in  your  ears. 

Out  in  the  woodshed  there  is  a  can  of  the 
largest,  fattest  angle-worms  ever  dug  from  a 
rich  garden-plot — all  so  happily,  so  feverishly, 


105 


THE  LONG  AGO 

so  exultantly  captured  last  night  when  Antici 
pation  strengthened  the  little  muscles  that 
wielded  the  heavy  spade.  All  safe  in  their 
black  soil  they  wait,  coiled  round  and  round 
each  other  into  a  solid  worm-ball  in  the  bottom 
of  the  can. 

A  mile  down  the  river  the  dam  is  calling— 
the  tumbled  waters  are  swirling  and  eddying 
and  foaming  over  the  deep  places  where  the 
black-bass  wait — and  old  Shoemaker  John, 
patriarch  of  the  river,  is  there  this  very  minute, 
unwinding  his  pole,  for  well  he  knows  that  if 
one  cares  to  brave  the  weather  he  will  catch  the 
largest  and  finest  and  most  bass  when  the  rain 
is  falling  on  the  river. 

But  small  boys  who  have  anxious  mothers 
do  not  go  fishing  on  rainy  days — so  there  is  no 
need  of  haste,  and  one  might  as  well  go  back 
to  bed  and  sleep  unconcernedly  just  as  late  as 
possible.  If  only  a  fellow  could  get  up  between 
showers,  or  before  the  rain  actually  starts,  so 
that  he  could  truthfully  say:  "But,  mother, 
really  and  truly,  it  wasn't  raining  when  we 
started!"  it  would  be  all  right,  and  the  escape 
was  warrantable,  justified  and  safe;  but  with 

106 


THE  RAIN 

the  rain  actually  falling,  there  was  nothing  to 
do  but  go  to  sleep  again  and  turn  the  worms 
back  into  the  garden  if  the  rain  didn't  let  up  by 
noon. 


It  is  one  of  the  miracles  of  life  that  Boyhood 
can  turn  grief  into  joy  and  become  almost  in 
stantly  reconciled  to  the  inevitable  like  a  true 
philosopher,  and  change  a  sorrow  into  a  bless 
ing.  The  companion  miracle  is  that  Manhood 
with  its  years  of  wisdom  forgets  how  to  do  this. 

And  so,  when  the  rainy  day  becomes  hope 
lessly  rainy,  and  Shoemaker  John  is  left 
alone  at  the  dam,  the  rain  that  sounded  so  dis 
mal  at  dawn  proves  to  be  a  benefactor  after  all. 
There  will  be  no  wood-splitting  today,  no  out 
door  chores — for  if  it's  too  wet  to  go  fishing,  as 
mother  insists,  of  course  it's  too  wet  to  carry 
wood,  or  weed  gardens  or  pick  cucumbers  for 
pickles.  The  logic  is  so  obvious  and  conclusive 
that  even  mother  does  not  press  the  point  when 
you  remind  her  of  it — and  you  are  free  for  a 
whole  day  in  the  attic. 

Instantly  the  blessing  is  manifest — the  sad 
ness  of  that  day-break  drip,  drip,  drip  is  healed 

107 


THE  LONG  AGO 

—the  whole  character  of  the  day  is  changed, 
and  the  rain-melody  becomes  not  a  dirge  but 
a  dance. 

The  attic  is  the  place  of  all  places  you  would 
most  love  to  be  on  this  particular  calendar  day ! 

How  stupid  to  spoil  a  perfectly  good  Satur 
day  by  sitting  on  a  hard  beam,  with  wet  spray 
blowing  in  your  face  all  the  time,  and  getting 
all  tired  out  holding  a  heavy  fish-pole,  when 
here  is  the  attic  waiting  for  you  with  its  mys 
terious  dark  corners,  its  scurrying  mice  that 
suddenly  develop  into  lions  for  your  bow-and- 
arrow  hunting,  and  its  maneuvers  on  the  broad 
field  of  its  floor  with  yourself  as  the  drum-corps 
and  your  companions  as  the  army  equipped 
with  wooden  swords  and  paper  helmets! 


The  day  has  been  rich  in  adventure,  and  ex 
ploration,  and  the  doing  of  great  deeds. 

And  it  has  been  all  too  short,  for  the  attic 
is  growing  dim,  and  mother  is  again  calling  us 
—telling  us  to  send  our  little  playmates  home 
and  come  and  get  our  bread  and  milk. 

A  last  arrow  is  shot  into  the  farthest  corner 
where  some  undiscovered  jungle  beast  may  be 
prowling. 

108 


THE  RAIN 

A  last  roll  is  given  to  the  drum,  and  the 
army  disbands. 

A  sudden  fear  seizes  upon  us  as  we  realize 
that  night  has  come  and  we  are  in  the  attic, 
alone. 

And  with  no  need  of  further  urging  we 
scamper  unceremoniously  down  the  stairs,  slam 
the  attic  door,  and  hurry  into  the  kitchen  where 
Maggie  has  our  table  waiting. 


Eight  o'clock — and  we're  all  tucked  away 
among  the  feathers  again. 

Aren't  we  glad  we  didn't  go  down  to  the 
river — it  would  have  been  a  cold,  dismal  day 
—and  perhaps  they  weren't  biting  today,  any 
way — and  we  should  have  gotten  very  wet. 

It  is  still  raining,  raining  hard — pattering 
unceasingly  on  the  roof  .  .  .  And  the  tin 
eave-troughs  are  singing  their  gentle  lullaby  of 
running  water  trickling  from  the  shingles  .  .  . 
a  lullaby  so  soothing  that  we  do  not  hear  mother 
softly  open  the  door  .  .  .  and  come  to  our 
crib  .  .  .  and  place  the  little  bare  arms  un 
der  the  covers  .  .  .  and  leave  a  kiss  on  the 
yellow  curls  and  a  benediction  in  the  room. 

109 


Aunt  Em's  Farm 

THERE'S  a  buggy  in  that  cloud  of  dust  on 
the  road.  It's  probably  Farmer  Griswold 
and  Aunt  Em,  with  the  old  freckled  white  horse, 
coming  in  from  the  farm.  Their  low,  rambling, 
white-and-green  farm-house  in  the  midst  of 
wide  acres  was  just  outside  the  town  toward 
the  fair-grounds  on  the  other  side  of  the  rail 
road  tracks. 

Over  near  the  big  barn  where  the  tobacco 
hung  drying  and  pungent,  stood  the  two  huge 
butternut  trees  whose  nuts  were  so  rich  and  oily 
and  had  hard  rough  shells  that  made  your 
thumb  and  forefinger  tingle  and  smart  when 
they  cracked  under  your  hammer-and-flatiron. 
The  hay-barn,  piled  full  almost  to  the  roof, 
made  fine  diving  practice — for  one  could  climb 
onto  the  very  topmost  rafter  and  jump  fear 
lessly  into  the  billows  of  hay,  to  be  bounced  and 

111 


THE  LONG  AGO 

tumbled  and  sometimes  rolled  over  the  edge 
down  to  the  floor  below. 

Along  the  pasture  fence  there  were  heavily- 
loaded   wild-plum   trees  with   their   red   and 
squashy  sun-ripened  fruit  so  rich  and  sweets 
each  one  just  a  good  mouthful* — swallow  the 
skins  and  see  how  far  you  can  blow  the  stones ! 

Beyond  the  tobacco-field  was  the  river,  wid 
ened  here  to  a  noble  stream  running  shallow 
over  its  stones  that  made  bubbly,  musical  riffles 
where  the  black-bass  came  to  sun  themselves 
and  feed.  Here  was  a  wonderful  field  for  ex 
ploration — it  seemed  so  far  away  from  every 
thing,  and  wild,  and  it  required  a  brave  heart 
and  dauntless  courage  to  walk  alone  down  the 
little-used  road  with  only  the  bamboo  fish-pole 
for  protection ;  for  there  stood  the  big  red  bull 
in  the  adjoining  pasture,  throwing  great  clouds 
of  dust  with  his  hoofs,  and  who  could  tell  when 
he  might  take  a  notion  to  smash  the  fence  and 
plunge  to  an  attack.  The  end  of  the  road  held 
allurements  potent  enough  to  banish  all  fear— 
for  it  led  straight  into  the  stream,  where  shoes 
and  stockings  were  hastily  discarded,  and  legs 
bared  to  the  knee  splashed  into  the  cool  waters, 

112 


AUNT  EM'S  FARM 

unmindful  of  the  stones  that  scratched  and 
bruised  and  the  little  crabs  that  wriggled  tick- 
lingly  from  under  a  descending  toe. 

But  the  house  was  a  treasure-trove  almost 
awesome  in  its  delights.  There  was  a  parlor, 
nearly  always  with  the  curtains  drawn  down 
except  when  "company"  came — solemn  and 
shivery  and  silent,  its  chairs  carefully  cloth- 
covered,  its  shining  black-hair  sofa,  its  long 
bean-string  portieres,  its  what-not  with  the  fas 
cinating  round  glass  paper-weight  with  a  turtle 
inside  which  always  wriggled  its  legs  and  tail, 
and  its  gorgeous  bouquet  of  wax  flowers  under 
a  glass  bowl. 

In  Grandmother  Pease's  bedroom  there 
were  thrilling  story-books — a  whole  set  of  them 
—never  found  elsewhere  before,  or  then,  or 
since,  to  be  read  by  the  hour  until  one's  soul 
was  saturated  with  determination  to  emulate 
their  great  deeds  and  duplicate  their  hair 
breadth  escapes. 

Chiefly  there  was  the  cookie-pantry  with  its 
covered  stone  crock  always  brim-full  of  cookies 
— and  a  cup  of  milk  dipped  right  out  of  one  of 
the  countless  big  pans  in  the  spring-house,  and 
a  handful  of  Aunt  Em's  cookies. 

113 


THE  LONG  AGO 

Out  on  the  porch  there  was  a  hammock 
made  of  barrel  staves  and  filled  with  cushions 
—a  place  to  lie  on  one's  back  and  see  castles  in 
Spain  and  deeds  of  valor  form  themselves  so 
easily  and  generously  in  the  fleecy  white  clouds 
that  floated  in  the  sky. 

So  isn't  it  great  to  see  Aunt  Em's  buggy 
there  in  the  dust-cloud  and  to  know  that  she'll 
drive  in  town  some  Saturday  and  take  us  back 
to  the  farm  with  her  for  over  Sunday  .  .  . 
and  let  us  poke  the  pigs,  and  hunt  the  field-mice 
with  Major  the  dog,  and  watch  the  milking  at 
evening — and  actually  sleep  away  from  home 
one  long  blissful  night ! 


114 


Flies  and  Fly-traps 


FTER  ALL,  come  to  think  of  it, 
the  Old  Folks  never  made  such  a 
fuss  about  flies  as  we  make 
nowadays.  You  cannot  pick  up 
a  magazine  without  running 
plumb  into  an  article  on  the  deadly  housefly — 
with  pictures  of  him  magnified  until  he  looks 
like  the  old  million-toed,  barrel-eyed,  spike- 
tailed  dragon  of  your  boyhood  mince-pie 
dreams.  The  first  two  pages  convince  you  that 
the  human  race  is  doomed  to  extermination 
within  eighteen  months  by  the  housefly  route! 

Grandmother  never  resorted  to  very  drastic 
measures.  The  most  violent  thing  she  ever  did 
was  to  get  little  Annie,  Bridget-the-house- 
woman's  Annie,  to  help  her  chase  them  out. 
They  went  from  room  to  room  periodically 
(when  flies  became  too  numerous),  each  armed 
with  an  old  sawed-off  broom-handle  on  which 
were  tacked  long  cloth  streamers — a  sort  of 
cat-o'-nine-tails  effect,  only  with  about  a  score 
or  more  of  tails.  After  herding  the  blue-bottles 
and  all  their  kith  and  kin  into  a  fairly  compact 
bunch  at  the  door,  little  Annie  opened  the 


116 


THE  LONG  AGO 

screen  and  grandmother  drove  them  out — and 
that's  all  there  was  to  it. 

Another  favorite  device  (particularly  in  the 
dining-room  and  kitchen),  was  the  "fly-gallery" 
—a  wonderful  array  of  multicolored  tissue- 
paper  festooned  artistically  from  the  ceiling  or 
around  the  gas-pipes  to  lure  or  induce  the  fly 
into  moments  of  inactivity.  There  was  no  ex 
termination  in  this  device — it  was  purely  pre 
ventive  in  its  function — the  idea  being  that 
since  there  must  be  fly-specks,  better  to  mass 
them  as  much  as  possible  on  places  where  they 
would  show  the  least  and  could  be  removed  the 
easiest  when  sufficiently  accumulated. 

But  the  greatest  ounce-of-prevention  was 
the  screen  hemisphere.  Gee !  I  haven't  thought 
of  that  thing  for  years,  have  you?  Of  course 
you  remember  it — absolutely  fly-proof — one 
clapped  over  the  butter,  another  over  the 
cracker-bowl,  another  over  the  sugar. 

And  say!  I  almost  forgot!  .  .  .  (Yes,  I 
know  you  were  just  going  to  speak  of  it ! )  .  .  . 
That  conical  screen  fly-trap — where  the  flies 
see  something  good  inside,  crawl  up  to  the  top 
and  then  over  and  in — and  then  can't  get  out 

116 


FLIES  AND  FLY-TRAPS 

— but  just  buzz  and  buzz  and  buzz — and  make 
a  lot  of  fuss  about  it — blue-bottles  and  all — no 
respecter  of  persons — and  when  it  gets  full  of 
the  quick  and  dead  in  flydom,  Bridget  takes  it 
out  in  the  back  yard  and  dumps  it.  Very  simple 
.  .  .  clean,  peaceful,  effective. 

My,  My!  But  it's  a  far  cry  back  to  those 
days,  isn't  it?  And  wouldn't  you  like  to  right 
this  mintue  sneak  into  the  cool,  curtain-down, 
ever-so-quiet  dining-room  again  .  .  .  and 
nose  around  to  see  if  anything  edible  had  been 
overlooked — and  see  one  of  those  dear  old 
round  fly-screens  guarding  the  sugar! 


117 


The 

Little  Old 
Town 


LET'S  go  back  to  it  again — back  to  the  Little 
Old  Town  nestling  among  the  rolling  hills 
along  the  river  .  .  .  Somehow,  in  the  Today, 
the  massed  sky-scrapers  and  the  steady  roar  of 
traffic  and  the  urging,  ever  urging,  pressure  of 
the  Great  City's  relentless  demands — and  the 
glamour  that  lured  us  into  its  vortex  when 
Ambition  raced  hot-blooded  through  our  veins 
—have  become  strangely  empty  to  our  dulled 
senses;  and  the  Little  Old  Town  of  that  won 
derful  Yesterday  reaches  out  its  kindly  hand 
to  steady  our  steps  and  warm  our  heart  with  its 
gentle  touch. 

Wouldn't  you   like   to    walk    down    Main 

119 


THE  LONG  AGO 

Street  again,  and  feel  the  soft  pine  boards  of 
the  wooden  sidewalks  that  resounded  under 
your  heelst — and  see  the  wide  blue  sky  gleam 
ing  above  the  low  roofs  of  the  stores — and  meet 
the  familiar  groups  of  neighbors  chatting  at 
the  postoffice — and  feel  your  little  cares  slip 
away  into  Nowhere  with  the  fading  day  when 
the  Little  Old  Town  grows  silent  in  the  twilight 
and  only  the  frogs  are  heard  in  far-off  chorus 
on  the  river-bank.  .  .  . 

Barney  will  meet  us  at  the  depot — Barney 
the  liveryman,  and  his  musty  old  hack  with  its 
bright  blue  cushions.  He  didn't  have  any  other 
name — or  anyway,  no  one  knew  it,  or  wanted 
to  know  it,  except  Lawyer  Bell  who  drew  his 
will.  Jolly,  jovial,  reliable  old  Barney — a  poor 
man,  we  thought,  until  he  at  last  took  the  Long 
Journey  and  Lawyer  Bell  dug  up  ten  thousand 
dollars  under  the  floor  of  the  "office"  in  his 
livery-stable.  Ten  thousand  dollars!  There 
were  only  a  few  persons  in  the  Little  Old  Town 
who  could  even  think  that  much  money!  It 
was  years  before  the  wonder  of  it  ceased  to 
furnish  talk  among  the  groups  at  the  postoffice, 
and  even  today  there  are  some  who  remember 
it,  and  are  still  full  of  the  wonder  of  it. 

120 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  TOWN 

What  a  welcome  he'll  give  us,  will  old  Bar 
ney!  He'll  take  our  baggage  and  want  us  to 
ride  inside  the  hack  (a  rare  privilege  at  double 
fare)  with  his  hired  driver.  But  no  siree!  We 
want  to  go  in  the  big  'bus — which  only  Barney 
himself  ever  drives — and  we'll  climb  up  the 
little  iron  ladder  and  swing  ourselves  onto  his 
high  seat,  alongside  Barney,  and  hold  one  of 
the  lines  (or  perhaps  both  if  the  road  isn't  bad), 
and  hear  all  about  everything.  For  Barney 
knows  all — he  gets  them  when  they  first  come 
and  he  takes  them  when  they  last  go,  and  be 
tween  times  he  hears  all  about  them  from  their 
neighbors.  The  every-Saturday  newspaper  has 
little  to  tell  that  Barney  doesn't  already  know 
— and  what  he  knows  that  the  paper  doesn't  tell 
would  fill  many  papers. 


Here  is  Postmaster  Moak's  place — the  big 
brown  house  set  in  the  middle  of  a  whole  block, 
fenced  with  thick  evergreen  hedges  and  its 
brick  walks  bordered  with  them,  all  trimmed  to 
the  same  height,  squared  and  topped  so  that 
not  so  much  as  a  twig  is  out  of  place  to  mar  the 
perfect  blocking. 

121 


THE  LONG  AGO 

There's  Lawyer  Bell  just  coming  down  the 
broad  stone  steps  of  his  mansion  on  the  corner. 
Its  high-ceilinged  parlor,  with  rich  hangings 
and  furnishings  and  hand-painted  family  por 
traits  of  famous  ancestors  over  the  mantel,  was 
so  imposing,  and  awe-inspiring,  and  grand,  and 
cold.  His  confident  step  is  unchanged  and  un 
affected  by  the  oncoming  years,  his  absorbed 
thought  is  as  oblivious  and  his  greeting  is  as 
brief  as  it  has  always  been.  Perhaps  if  we  held 
the  secrets  and  the  destinies  and  even  the  repu 
tations  of  a  whole  town  locked  in  our  breast  we, 
too,  might  be  men  of  fewer  words. 

But  Banker  Williams,  just  turning  the  cor 
ner,  is  smiling  as  usual  through  his  long  beard. 
A  plain  man,  they  called  him — as  often  seen 
with  the  white  of  his  flour-mill  upon  his  coat  as 
with  the  stately  black  of  his  banker's  clothes 
unsoiled. 

And  there's  Justice  Parker,  stomping 
straight  and  purposeful  and  determined  down 
the  street  loudly  tapping  the  sidewalk  with  his 
gold-headed  cane.  Speak  to  him  if  you  dare, 
boy — if  you  think  that  Time  has  dimmed  his 
memory — you  who  snow-balled  his  silk  hat  that 

122 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  TOWN 

day  and  he  saw  you  do  it    .    .    .    Alas,  that  day ! 
It  hurts  me  yet,  mother! 


Main  Street!  .  .  .  Drive  slowly,  Barney 
—let  'em  walk  awhile.  There's  the  old  sprink 
ling-cart  wetting  down  the  dust  of  the  street — 
and  there's  the  postoffice  with  the  same  crowd 
sitting  on  the  iron  railing  and  the  teams  hitched 
to  the  posts  at  the  side.  .  .  .  There's  Eliza 
Curtis  watering  the  red  geraniums  in  the  win 
dow  boxes  of  her  second-story  rooms  above 
Jones'  dry-goods  store.  She  owned  that  whole 
block,  and  had  some  marvellous  silk  dresses  so 
stiff  they'd  almost  stand  alone  .  .  .  Seems 
to  me  Mr.  Fuhrman  ought  to  get  his  cigar-store 
Indian  painted — its  peeling  .  .  .  There  sits 
old  Tom  Spencer,  on  the  balcony  over  the  post- 
office,  with  his  big  feet  cocked  on  the  railing. 
He'll  throw  a  bucket  of  coal  at  you  again  down 
the  long  flight  of  steps  if  you  yell  at  him  like 
you  did  one  day. 

There's  a  lot  of  people  on  the  red  iron 
bridge,  probably  watching  the  black-bass  and 
pike  rising  to  feast  on  the  first  clouds  of  May 
flies  as  they  skim  the  surface  of  the  river. 

123 


THE  LONG  AGO 

Charlie  Hopkins'  candy  store  still  stands 
solitary  and  strange  on  the  bridge,  built  on  tall, 
gaunt  skeleton-like  piles  in  the  middle  of  the 
river.  Some  folks  said  he  built  it  there  so  he 
wouldn't  have  to  buy  any  land  or  pay  any  taxes, 
because  no  one  owned  the  middle  of  the  river, 
but  maybe  folks  were  just  gossiping,  and  any 
way,  Charlie  Hopkins  was  the  only  one  who'd 
sell  a  penny's  worth  of  mixed  caramels,  and  he 
gave  the  biggest  if  not  the  purest  licorice  stick 
for  a  cent.  There  weren't  any  smart-Aleck 
clerks  in  his  store.  And  Charlie  never  told  on 
his  good  customers  who  bought  glass-tipped 
cigarettes  occasionally.  He  and  his  wife  kept 
the  place  themselves,  and  lived  in  the  rear.  If 
Mr.  Hopkins,  thin  and  sharp-eyed  and  quick  of 
step,  did  not  happen  to  be  on  duty,  Mrs.  Hop 
kins,  very,  very  large,  and  correspondingly 
deliberate  of  movement,  was  always  filling, 
completely  filling,  her  accustomed  rocking 
chair,  ready  to  gather  in  every  stray  penny  that 
floated  into  the  house.  The  odors  of  cooking 
and  general  domesticity  mingled  with  the  smell 
of  years-old  candy  and  the  peculiar  fragrance 
of  the  soda-fountain,  to  make  an  atmosphere 

124 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  TOWN 

totally  unlike  that  of  any  other  store  in  town 
and  that  will  never  be  forgotten. 


Barney,  Barney!  Hold  your  horses,  please 
do,  Barney !  Here  comes  the  band,  right  down 
the  middle  of  the  street,  dirt  and  mud  and  all, 
playing  the  same  old  march :  "Um-dum-de  um 
dum  dum — um-diddy — um — dum — dum!"  We 
know  almost  everybody  in  it,  don't  we — only 
they  all  look  so  different  in  their  uniforms,  glor 
ified  entirely  away  from  barber-chairs  and 
calico-counters  and  prescription-cases  land 
shoemaker's  benches.  You  feel  that  you  just 
can't  ever  let  Charlie  demean  himself  again  by 
cutting  your  hair,  after  you  see  him  in  the  glory 
of  his  band  regalia  and  hear  him  sending  forth 
the  clarion  blasts  of  his  B-flat  cornet.  It  mat 
tered  nothing  that  the  cornets  were  outscreech- 
ing  the  trombone,  that  the  "woof,  woof,  woof, 
woof,"  of  the  bass  horn  drowned  the  cornet, 
that  the  screech  of  the  piccolo  wasn't  in  quite 
the  same  key  as  the  flutes  or  that  the  bass-drum 
and  cymbals  crashed  the  whole  band  into  ob 
livion  and  fairly  made  the  nearby  buildings 
tremble  and  sent  every  horse-owner  on  the 
street  to  the  head  of  his  wild-eyed,  snorting, 

125 


THE  LONG  AGO 

struggling  steed.  It  was  the  band — our  home 
band — playing  the  very  tune  that  won  for  them 
first  prize  at  the  County  Fair — our  friends  and 
neighbors  marching  erect  and  splendid  in  its 
ranks — and  he  would  be  an  ingrate  indeed  who 
takes  thought  of  such  non-essentials  as  keys 
and  modulations  and  close  harmonies  and 
technique,  and  who  is  not  thrilled  and  pride- 
filled  when  those  gorgeous  lines  come  sweeping 
down  the  street  and  the  air  is  filled  with  the 
noble  strains  of  that  matchless  "Um-dum-de 
um  dum  dum — urn  diddy  um  dum  dum !  .  .  . 


It  hasn't  changed  at  all,  the  Little  Old  Town. 
It's  all  here,  just  the  same  as  ever. 

There  was  time  to  live,  then — time  to  live 
and  love  and  labor — time  to  make  friends  and 
be  a  friend— time  to  catch  the  lilt  of  the 
meadow-lark  and  the  fragrance  of  the  lilac  and 
the  gleam  of  the  hollyhocks  against  the  brick 
wall,  and  to  know  the  warmth  of  a  neighbor's 
greeting. 

It's  the  self-same  Little  Old  Town  today 
that  it  was  in  the  long  ago. 

We  need  only  come  back  to  it! 


126 


School 
Days 


COME,  little  boy,  wake  up!  School  begins 
today. 

Strange,  isn't  it,  that  the  eyes  which  were 
so  wide  open  before  daylight  on  circus  day,  and 
the  little  legs  which  were  scrambling  around 
in  the  garden  in  the  gray  dawn  after  worms  for 
that  trip  to  the  trout  stream,  are  this  morning 
so  tightly  closed  and  so  wonderfully  still  at 
almost  8  o'clock.  .  .  .  But — school  again! 

It's  hard  luck,  isn't  it,  little  fellow? 

Same  old  stuffy  room ;  teacher  watching  all 
the  time ;  no  chance  to  shy  paper  wads ;  no  talk 
ing  to  the  other  fellows,  even  in  a  whisper,  with 
out  penalty ;  the  same  old  stupid  grammars,  the 
same  perplexing  arithmetics,  the  same  uninter 
esting  geographies. 

Caged  through  the  best  hours  of  the  day! 
Yes,  caged  as  rebelliously  and  as  hopelessly  as 
is  the  wild  creature  behind  its  steel  bars. 

Of  what  avail  the  sunlight,  the  soft  air,  the 
stream-song  and  the  noisy  chatter  of  the  squir 
rels  that  come  floating  in  through  the  open 


127 


THE  LONG  AGO 

windows?  They  are  all  far  out  of  reach,  and 
only  tantalize. 

To  be  sure,  dearie,  there  will  come  the  4 
o'clock  hour,  in  the  same  old  way.  There  will 
be  the  same  old  feeling  of  freedom,  of  bound 
ing  joy,  of  carelessness  when  "school  is  out/' 
The  unrestrainable  shout  will  echo  across  the 
valley  as  of  old,  but  all  these  last  will  be  tem 
pered  by  the  thought  that  tomorrow — the 
choicest  part  of  each  tomorrow* — must  be  spent 
within  the  cage  again. 

But  never  mind,  little  lover! 

Some  day  you  will  pass  through  these  school- 
day  trials  and  joys  again — in  memory. 

You  will  look  back  upon  them  through  tear- 
prisms  that  will  make  them  glow  crimson-bright 
and  glorious. 

And  the  world-tired  heart  of  you  will  cry 
out  in  ineffable  longing  to  go  back  to  the  boy 
hood  days,  throw  open  the  door  of  their  school- 
time  cage  and  enter  into  it  again  as  one  enters 
into  the  realm  of  an  immeasurable  happiness. 

So  wake  up,  dearie!  Come,  now,  don't 
make  mother  call  you  again! 

School  begins  today — and  there  are  so  few 
school  days  in  life ! 

128 


Autumnal  Activities 

THERE  were  three  recognized  uses  for 
leaves  in  the  Autumn — first,  to  be  banked 
by  the  wind  along  fences  or  sidewalk  edges  and 
provide  kicking-ground  for  exuberant  young 
sters  returning  home  from  school ;  second,  to  be 
packed  around  the  foundations  of  the  house  as 
a  measure  for  interior  comfort  in  winter;  and, 
third,  to  be  pressed  between  the  pages  of  the 
big  Bible  and  kept  for  ornamental  purposes 
until  they  crumbled  and  had  to  be  thrown  away. 
This  last-named  use  was  always  questioned  by 
every  red-blooded  boy,  and  more  tolerated  than 
accepted — a  concession  to  the  women  of  earth, 
from  little  sister  with  her  bright-hued  wreath 


129 


THE  LONG  AGO 

to  mother  and  grandmother  with  their  book  of 
pressed  leaves. 

Even  for  purposes  of  comfort  their  use  was 
more  or  less  secondary — granted  because  the 
banking-up  process  was  a  man's  job  and  an 
out-door  enterprise.  Then,  too,  it  was  a  lot  of 
fun  to  rake  the  big  yard  and  get  the  fallen 
leaves  into  one  or  two  huge  piles;  and  wheel 
barrow  them  to  the  edge  of  the  house  where 
old  Spencer  had  driven  the  wooden  pegs  that 
held  the  boards  ready  to  receive  the  leaves. 
Load  after  load  was  dumped  into  the  trough- 
like  arrangement  and  stamped  down  tight  and 
hard  by  old  Tom's  huge  feet  and  little  Willie's 
eager  but  ineffective  ones — and  then  the  top 
board  was  fastened  down,  and  never  a  cold 
winter  wind  could  find  its  way  under  the  floors 
with  such  a  protective  bulwark  around  the 
house.  .  .  .  And  in  the  spring  the  boards 
had  to  be  taken  down — and  countless  bleached 
bugs  fairly  oozed  out  into  the  spring  sunlight— 
and  the  snow-wet  soggy  leaves  were  raked  out 
and  burned,  and  the  smoke  was  so  thick  and 
heavy  that  it  hardly  got  out  of  the  yard. 

But  the  real  use  of  leaves — their  only  legiti- 

130 


AUTUMNAL  ACTIVITIES 

mate  function  in  the  Autumn,  according  to  all 
accepted  boy-law — was  for  kicking  purposes. 

Plunging  through  banks  of  dry  leaves  along 
the  edge  of  the  sidewalk — knee-deep  sometimes 
—scattering  them  in  all  directions,  even  about 
our  heads — there  was  such  a  racket  that  we 
could  scarcely  hear  each  other's  shouts  of  glee. 
And  we'd  run  through  them  only  to  dive  ex 
hausted  into  some  huge  pile  of  them,  rolling 
and  kicking  and  hollering  until  some  kid  came 
along  and  chucked  an  armful,  dirt  and  all, 
plumb  into  our  face !  This  was  the  signal  for  a 
battle  of  leaves — and  perhaps  there  would  have 
been  fewer  tardy-marks,  teacher,  if  there  had 
been  fewer  autumn  leaves  along  the  route  .  .  . 
Perhaps ! 

There  were  influences  that  tempered  the 
joys  of  leaf-kicking — some  "meanie"  was  al 
ways  ready  to  hide  a  big  rock,  or  other  disagree 
able  foreign  substance,  under  a  particularly 
inviting  bunch  of  leaves — then  watch  and  giggle 
at  your  discomfiture  when  you  came  innocently 
ploughing  along! 

What  a  riot  of  wonderful  color  they  made 
just  after  the  first  frosts  had  turned  their  green 

131 


THE  LONG  AGO 

to  red  and  gold  and  brown!  As  a  boy  I  dis 
dained  so  weak  a  thing  as  noticing  the  color 
ing  on  Big  Hill — but  now,  in  the  long-after 
years,  I  realize  that  its  vivid  Autumn  garment 
was  indestructibly  fixed  in  my  memory  and  has 
lived — saved  for  me  until  I  could  look  back 
through  Time's  long  glass  and  understand  and 
love  that  glorious  picture.  Not  even  the  brush 
of  a  Barbizon  master  could  tell  the  story  of  Big 
Hill,  three  miles  up  the  river  from  Main  Street 
bridge,  gleaming  in  the  hues  that  Jack  Frost 
mixed,  beneath  the  blue-gold  dome  of  a  cloud 
less  sky — for  it  could  not  paint  the  chatter  of 
the  squirrel,  or  the  glint  of  the  bursting  bitter 
sweet  berry,  or  the  call  of  the  crow,  or  the  crisp 
of  the  air,  or  the  joy  of  life  that  only  boyhood 
knows ! 


Many  wonderful  things  happened  at  grand 
pa's  in  the  autumn. 

One  day  when  you  were  hanging  around  the 
kitchen  after  school  for  no  special  reason  and 
several  very  good  ones,  grandpa  came  to  the 
door  and  told  Bridget,  the  house-woman,  to 
open  the  little  west  window  in  the  potato-cellar 
and  hook  it  back. 

132 


AUTUMNAL  ACTIVITIES 

Your  plans  for  another  sortie  into  the  cookie- 
pantry  were  temporarily  abandoned  as  you 
clattered  out  into  the  crisp  afternoon  air  to  see 
what  was  going  on. 

A  little  old  broad-faced  sun-bronzed  farmer 
had  backed-up  a  big  green  box-wagon  against 
the  board  sidewalk  just  opposite  the  west  win 
dow  in  the  potato-cellar. 

The  wagon  was  full  of  potatoes — fine,  sound 
Early  Rose,  you  recollect — and  the  wagon-box 
was  so  full  that  some  of  them  rolled  into  the 
street  when  old  Pete  backed  his  wagon  ki-plunk 
against  the  sidewalk  and  hollered  "whoa, 
there!"  to  his  horses. 

Then  a  chute  was  fixed  on  the  back  of  the 
wagon,  its  other  end  poking  through  that  used- 
once-a-year  little  west  window  in  the  potato- 
cellar.  The  back-board  of  the  wagon  was 
knocked  and  pried  and  lifted  up — and  away 
rolled  the  potatoes  along  the  chute  and  into  the 
cellar. 

The  whole  house  re-echoed  with  the  bump 

— br-r-r-r-ump — the    hollow,     resonant,     deep 

rumble  of  rolling  potatoes  as  old  Pete  shoveled 

bushel  after  bushel  into  the  chute  while  grandpa 

133 


THE  LONG  AGO 

stood  on  the  sidewalk  and  kept  an  eye  on  the 
proceedings.  And  when  the  last  half-dozen 
potatoes  had  been  scraped  noisily  into  the  cellar 
depths  he  counted  out  some  gold-pieces  and 
some  silver  into  old  Pete's  knotty  hand — and 
another  important  autumn  event  had  become 
history. 

Then  grandpa  came  marching  into  the 
kitchen  with  three  or  four  potatoes  in  his  hand : 

"There,  Mrs.  Van,  the  cellar's  full  and 
they're  running  pretty  much  all  like  these." 

"Well,  they  seem  all  right,  Mr.  Van,  and  if 
they're  as  good  as  the  lot  we  had  last  year  that's 
all  I  ask." 

And  there  they  were — bushels  of  them— 
bought  by  contract  and  barter  and  bargaining 
—a  winter's  supply  laid-in  all  at  one  time' — 
and  you  surely  remember  how  they  used  to  be 
gin  to  sprout  after  a  while  and  send  up  little 
white  shoots  until  Bridget  and  little  Annie  went 
down  cellar  one  day  and  "sprouted"  the  whole 
lot. 

Dear  old  Early  Rose!  Do  they  grow  now, 
I  wonder?  Seems  to  me  we  just  order  25-cents 
worth  of  "potatoes" — any  kind — just  "spuds," 
as  the  grocer  writes  it  on  his  bill. 

134 


AUTUMNAL  ACTIVITIES 

Of  course,  they're  all  right — as  "spuds"  go 
— but  you  can't  get  any  real  baked  potatoes 
nowadays  .  .  .  You  can?  .  .  .  Oh,  but 
you  never  had  one  of  grandma's  baked  Early 
Rose — the  ground  doesn't  grow  'em — and  the 
ovens  don't  bake  'em — unh ! — unh ! 

There  was  something  very  substantial  in  the 
sound  of  those  potatoes  rolling  along  the  chute 
into  the  cellar.  ...  It  was  the  sound  of 
plenty — made  a  fellow  feel  sort  of  safe.  .  .  . 
Perhaps  it's  just  as  good  to  let  the  grocer  keep 
them  in  his  cellar,  and  get  them  in  sacks-full  as 
we  need  them  .  .  .  But  doesn't  it  look  funny 
to  see  a  big  husky  delivery-man  come  stomping 
in  with  a  little  paper  sack  of  "spuds" — espe 
cially  to  a  fellow  who  has  ever  watched  old 
Pete  and  his  scoop-shovel  and  who  has  heard 
that  deep,  hollow,  resonant  rumble  of  the 
wagon-load  of  Early  Rose  rolling  into  the  dark, 
cold  cellar! 


Did  your  folks  have  a  meat-house — stored 
full  of  pork  and  beef  every  autumn?  ...  Of 
course  they  did!  Only  it  seems  so  far  away, 
looking  backward  from  this  day  of  50-cent 


135 


THE  LONG  AGO 

bacon  which  was  a  sort  of  by-product  in  grand 
father's  time,  that  I  thought  maybe  I  dreamed 
it  or  read  it  somewhere. 

Our  meat-house  was  the  best-built  and 
neatest  affair  on  the  place  except  the  main 
house.  It  was  between  the  big  barn  and  the 
end  of  the  kitchen  wing.  Great  iron  hooks 
hung  from  huge  rafters  overhead  with  smaller 
bracket  hooks  on  all  walls.  A  chopping  block 
stood  in  one  corner — same  as  you  see  now  in 
the  meat  markets,  only  its  legs  were  more  wob 
bly  and  less  fancy. 

I  don't  remember  just  how  many  hogs  and 
young  pigs  and  beeves  grandfather  bought 
every  year — but  I  know  the  meat-house  was  as 
large  as  a  small  cottage,  and  it  was  chuck  full 
of  hams  and  hind-quarters  and  sides  and  spare- 
ribs  and  every  other  edible  part — suspended 
from  the  big  hooks  or  laid  on  the  long  tables. 

When  the  "smoking"  began,  hams,  shoul 
ders,  bacon  and  sausage  were  all  hung  up  in 
the  smoke-house  on  the  far  side  of  the  barn— 
and  the  crisp  autumn  air  was  redolent  of  com 
bined  wood-and-pig  smoke  wafting  leisurely 
out  of  the  little  top  windows  of  the  smoke-house 

136 


AUTUMNAL  ACTIVITIES 

.  .  .  (Well,  just  because  you  never  had  any 
smoked  sausage,  you  needn't  think  it  wasn't 
smoked.  We  always  had  it — long  skins  of  it— 
and  you  could  grab  a  hunk  of  it  in  one  grimy 
hand  and  a  soda  cracker  in  the  other  and  sneak 
out  of  the  back  gate  and  just  evaporate  into 
Nowhere  without  ever  remembering  that  the 
kitchen  wood-box  was  nearly  empty.)  Of 
course,  grandfather  had  other  sausage — and  it 
was  sausage!  Real  pork  sausage — little  pig 
sausage  like  Uncle  Milo  still  makes  on  his  Wis 
consin  farm — with  plenty  of  good  fragrant  sage 
in  it  (can't  you  just  smell  it  this  minute!) — and 
not  the  all-sorts,  a-little-of-everything-that-we- 
can't-use-elsewhere  kind  that  they  offer  us  now 
adays. 

All  through  the  winter  when  grandmother 
called  for  a  roast,  or  a  steak,  or  chops,  or  any 
thing  else,  grandfather  would  wind  his  muffler 
around  his  neck  (it  was  colder'n  blazes  in  the 
meat-house!)  and  go  out  and  cut  just  the  exact 
piece  she  wanted  ...  If  you  happened  to 
see  him  start  before  grandmother  caught  sight 
of  you,  you'd  find  it  convenient  to  be  elsewhere 
without  delay,  because  if  she  saw  you  she'd  say, 

137 


THE  LONG  AGO 

"Willie,  go  help  your  grandfather  bring  in  the 
meat,"  and  then  you'd  have  to  stand  around  in 
the  cold  till  your  knuckles  and  nose  got  blue. 
Gee  whiz !  but  that  meat-house  was  cold!  The 
mere  memory  of  it  now  makes  me  feel  as  if  I 
haven't  been  warm  through-and-through  since 
I  last  stood  numb  and  shivering  in  that  little 
old  meat-house. 


After  the  cutting  and  trimming  were  done, 
and  the  meat  was  stored  away,  grandmother 
and  Bridget  tackled  the  soap.  The  scraps  of 
fat  left  over  from  the  meat  cutting  were  added 
to  a  collection  previously  made  and  the  whole 
was  dumped  into  a  huge  iron  soap  kettle.  Then 
more  water  was  poured  on  the  ash  barrel,  and 
the  lye  started  moving  again.  There  was  al 
ways  a  barrel  of  wood-ashea — maple  was  best 
but  oak  was  good — the  cleaner  the  ashes  the 
better  the  lye — with  water  poured  on  it  that 
eventually  trickled  through  the  ashes  and  came 
out  of  the  bottom.  This  lye  and  fat  were  mixed 
in  the  big  kettle  and  boiled  until  it  was  thick, 
when  it  was  put  into  its  own  special  barrel  ready 
for  use.  This  was  the  famous  "soft  soap"  of 

138 


AUTUMNAL  ACTIVITIES 

the  long  ago — and  no  one  who  knew  its  ingred 
ients  ever  doubted  that  the  kitchen  table-tops 
and  the  floor  were  sure-enough  clean  after 
Bridget  finished  scrubbing  them.  The  hard 
soap  had  to  have  salt  in  it  to  stiffen  it — spread 
on  boards  and  dried  and  cut  into  square  chunks 
.  .  .  and  smell?  Glory  be!  Wasn't  it  some 
thing  awful!  But  grandmother  and  Bridget 
never  seemed  to  mind  it! 

Folks  nowadays  say:  "What's  the  use  of 
making  soap  when  you  can  buy  it  so  cheap?" 
.  .  .  Well,  perhaps  they're  right.  But  some 
how — tonight — here  by  the  open  fire — with  the 
first  chill  of  the  autumn  outside — I  can't  help 
wishing  I  could  see  the  old  meat-house  tomor 
row  with  its  suspended  hams  and  shoulders  and 
sides  and  spare-ribs  and  sausage  links,  and  the 
fumes  coming  out  of  the  smoke-house — yes,  and 
even  smell  the  soap  brewing  out  in  the  back 
yard. 

And  best  of  all,  I  wish  I  had  a  chunk  of 
smoked  sausage  in  one  hand  and  a  soda  cracker 
in  the  other,  and  was  sneaking  out  of  the  back 
gate  down  to  the  river  forgetting  the  empty 
wood-box  in  the  kitchen.  ...  So  many  un- 

139 


THE  LONG  AGO 

filled  wood-boxes  through  the  years  and  such 
long  time  empty — ever  calling,  calling  me  back 
just  as  my  hand  touches  the  latch  of  the  dream- 
gate  that  swings  outward. 


140 


The 

County 

Fair 


"\  Y/HEN  Farmer  Griswold  planted  his  corn  he 
W  selected  certain  kernels  with  special  care, 
buried  them  just  as  carefully  in  that  part  of  his 
field  that  seemed  to  have  the  richest  and  best 
soil,  hoed  that  row  with  particular  zeal  and 
thoroughness,  and  brought  its  stalks  to  a  splen 
did  maturity  that  distinguished  them  from  all 
their  fellows  in  the  broad  sun-warmed  acres. 
So,  also,  with  his  potatoes,  and  his  beets  and 
his  tobacco.  He  watched  his  growing  wheat 
and  oats  and  barley  with  trained  and  discern 
ing  eye,  marking  spots  where  the  grain  grew 
thickest  and  tallest  and  the  heads  were  the 
longest  and  plumpest.  Each  pumpkin's  growth 
was  noted,  and  the  squash  were  under  careful 
and  constant  inspection.  Likewise  he  sorted 
out  certain  favored  hogs  and  penned  them  away 
from  the  others,  bestowing  upon  them  inordi 
nate  partiality  in  the  matter  of  good  feed  and 


141 


THE  LONG  AGO 

plenty  of  it.  Nor  could  the  rank  and  file  of  the 
dairy  herd  and  the  horses  in  the  big  barn  under 
stand  why  some  of  its  members  received  such 
special  and  unremitting  care  from  the  Hired 
Man. 

When  Aunt  Em  made  pickles  and  put  up 
peaches  and  green  gages,  certain  jars  that  were 
filled  the  neatest  with  baby  cucumbers  all  of  a 
size  and  perfectly  matched  were  set  up  on  a 
special  shelf  in  the  pantry  under  a  special  label. 

Grandmother  Pease — she  really  wasn't  any 
body's  grandmother,  but  she  ought  to  have  been 
because  Nature  made  her  just  what  a  grand 
mother  should  be,  so  everyone  called  her  grand 
mother — wove  the  most  beautiful  rag  rugs  and 
pieced  the  most  gorgeous  silk  bedspreads  and 
knitted  the  warmest  and  most  intricate  shoul 
der-throws  and  coverlets  which  she  gave  away 
generously  among  her  friends.  But  always 
there  was  one  piece  upon  which  she  was  work 
ing  with  special  devotion — it  progressed  slowly 
because  she  worked  on  it  only  when  she  felt 
strongest  or  had  time  to  give  it  undivided  atten 
tion.  It  took  her  almost  a  year  to  finish  this 
particular  article — but  what  a  masterpiece  it 

142 


THE  COUNTY  FAIR 

was  when  she  finally  removed  it  from  its  pro 
tective  sheet  in  which  she  had  kept  it  rolled  and 
secreted  and  displayed  it  for  the  approval  of 
the  family. 

Mr.  Wegeman,  cigar-maker,  rolling  his 
hand-made  cigars  in  their  hollowed-out  com 
partments  in  the  hardwood  board  before  him, 
day  by  day  set  aside  certain  ones  that  came  out 
of  the  mould  most  perfectly  shaped  and  of  finest 
and  most  uniform  color.  Later  he  formed  them 
tenderly  into  fans  and  ovals  and  stars  and  cres 
cents  and  circles  and  houses  and  various  other 
artistic  shapes,  beneath  a  great  glass  case  with 
his  name  inside  in  red  and  blue  and  gold  letters. 
Then  he  closed  its  glass  cover,  locked  it,  and 
put  it  out  of  sight  for  a  time. 

Woodard  &  Stone,  the  big  candy  and 
cracker  manufacturers,  had  a  glass  case,  too. 
It  had  their  name  written  in  flaming  letters  of 
real  red  cinnamon  drops,  and  checker-boards 
of  real  caramels,  and  a  cracker  menagerie  of 
every  wild  animal  known  to  man — all  guarded 
by  real  chocolate  nigger-babies  and  real  candy 
men.  They,  too,  built  it  up  throughout  the  year 
of  the  choicest  product  of  their  fairyland  fac- 

143 


THE  LONG  AGO 

tory,  closed  its  glass  lid,  locked  it,  and  set  it 
away  for  a  while. 

And  so  in  the  broad  fields  and  gardens  of 
the  country  and  the  busy  shops  of  the  Little 
Old  Town,  things  laboriously  brought-forth 
from  the  soil  and  things  hand-fashioned  lov 
ingly,  were  sorted-out  and  selected,  cast  aside 
and  brought-back,  re-sorted  and  re-selected, 
weighed  and  balanced  and  compared,  chosen 
and  rejected — all  in  a  year-long  preparation 
for  that  one  supreme  annual  event  which  more 
than  all  others  welded  the  dear  people  of  the 
valley  into  one  great  happy  family. 

What  heartsomeness  and  love  and  conse 
crated  labor  went  to  make  up  the  County  Fair ! 
Perhaps  you  thought  it  was  only  a  vast  collec 
tion  of  corn  and  wheat  and  potatoes  and  knitted 
coverlets  and  pickles  and  cigars  and  candy  and 
a  hundred  other  things,  assembled  annually  in 
one  spot  so  that  three-shell  men  and  flag-sellers 
and  bus-drivers  and  all-sorts  could  congregate 
to  filch  money  from  careless  simple  folk,  or  give 
an  extra  day's  vacation  from  school.  That  is 
not  at  all  what  the  County  Fair  stood  for,  not 
what  it  reflected.  Those  fat  hogs  and  sleek 

144 


THE  COUNTY  FAIR 

cattle  and  beautiful  horses  with  their  blue-rib 
bon  prizes,  those  towering  grain-shocks  and 
mammoth  pumpkins,  those  lace  doilies  and 
pyramids  of  preserves,  the  squeaky  grand-stand 
at  the  race-track  where  sleek  trotters  and  long- 
limbed  running  horses  brought  the  cheering 
crowds  to  their  feet  amid  fluttering  handker 
chiefs  and  the  blare  of  the  brass  band — all  these 
were  only  phenomena.  The  County  Fair  was 
an  institution — a  living,  throbbing,  pulsating 
human  expression — not  born  and  dying  in  two 
brief  weeks,  but  loved  and  worked-for  every 
day  of  every  year,  living  daily  in  the  hearts  of 
those  who  filled  its  stalls  and  counters  with  the 
fatness  of  the  land,  just  as  it  lives  on  in  the 
loving  memory  of  everyone  who  once  strolled 
among  its  glories  and  caught  the  real  meaning 
of  the  County  Fair  behind  its  piled-up  displays. 


The  fair-grounds  were  far  from  town,  and 
the  road  was  long  and  dusty.  The  25-cent  piece 
given  you  for  the  occasion  together  with  the 
odd  pennies  heroically  saved  for  it,  seemed  so 
inadequate !  But  just  as  you  were  about  to  go 
out  of  the  door,  and  had  resigned  yourself  to 

145 


THE  LONG  AGO 

make  the  best  of  it  with  such  meager  allowance, 
grandfather  called  you  back  into  the  office : 

"Going  to  the  fair,  Billy?" 

"Uh-huh." 

"How  much  money  have  you  got?" 

A  freckled  hand  delved  into  various  pockets, 
assembled  an  assortment  of  coins,  and  held 
them  palm-up  for  grandfather  to  count. 

"That's  only  33  cents,  Billy.  Can  you  get 
along  with  that?" 

"Uh-huh — I  guess  so,  gran'pa." 

A  hand  on  your  curly  head  (its  kindly  touch 
lingers  through  all  the  long  years!)  and  the 
other  hand  fumbling  in  the  vest  pocket  on  the 
right  side — a  breathless  moment  of  utter  vacuum 
so  fearful  was  its  expectancy — and  then  a  big 
half-dollar  dropped  silently  into  the  33-cent 
pile.  A  whole  half-dollar!  It  was  beyond  im 
mediate  comprehension.  But  another  look  and 
a  tightening  of  the  little  fist  around  its  huge  rim 
was  confirmation  indisputable — two  boy-arms 
thrown  about  broadcloth  shoulders,  a  tight  hug 
and  a  kiss  on  a  soft  wrinkled  cheek — and  a  dash 
for  the  door  that  clicked  shut  simultaneously 
with  a  shout:  "Hey,  fellers,  look  what  I  got!" 

146 


THE  COUNTY  FAIR 

Down  the  street  there  came  a  long  open  'bus 
— carpet-covered  seats  along  each  side  and  a 
canvas  top  gorgeously  fringed.  It  was  Barney's 
summer  'bus — and  Barney's  own  voice  sounded 
its  clarion  invitation  to  the  town :  "All  aboard 
for  the  fair  grounds!  First  load  going  right 
out!" 

Almost  before  its  echoes  had  died  away,  the 
"first  load"  was  crowded  into  the  'bus,  every 
inch  of  space  made  available  by  Barney's  firm : 
"Move  up  a  little  in  front  please  and  let  this 
lady  in.  ...  Right  this  way,  Mr.  Selick, 
plenty  of  room.  .  .  .  Move  up  a  little  more, 
please  .  .  .  That's  it,  thank  you  .  .  .  All 
filled  now,  I  guess  .  .  .  Here  we  go  .  .  . 
Whoa,  wait  a  minute.  Gotta  take  Mis'  Clark 
in — always  wait  for  the  school-marm,  and  al 
ways  room  for  one  more." 

The  fares  were  collected,  and  Barney  pre 
pared  to  swing  himself  into  place  on  the  driver's 
seat.  But  a  new  problem  awaited  him.  Three 
boys  were  there,  and  they  began  bargaining 
immediately  for  half -fare  rides. 

"Got  no  room,  boys,  all  full." 

"Aw,  Barney,  c'm-mon,  let  us  ride  on  the 
steps  fer  ten  cents." 

147 


THE  LONG  AGO 

"And  fall  off  and  get  hurt  and  me  having  to 
tell  your  grandfather,  eh?" 

"Ugh-ugh,  Barney,  we  won't  fall,  honest  we 
won't.  Aw  Barney,  we  just  gotta  go  on  th'  first 
load." 

"Climb  on  then,  and  be  quick  about  it.  ... 
That's  all  right,  keep  your  money." 

And  so  the  first  load,  packed  full  with  the 
springs  touching,  and  with  three  bobbing, 
ecstatic  youngsters  struggling  for  foothold  on 
the  steps  and  clinging  firmly  to  the  iron  railing 
and  each  other,  goes  rumbling  through  town, 
the  envy  of  everyone  who  missed  a  place  in  it 
and  had  to  wait  for  the  next  load.  Countless 
times  along  that  dusty  road  Barney  shook  his 
head  at  imploring  individuals  and  groups  along 
the  roadside  and  sung  out:  "Nope,  can't  take 
another  one.  Full  up.  Springs  hitting  now. 
Better  sit  down  under  that  tree  and  wait.  Be 
another  'bus  along  in  a  minute."  A  crack  of 
his  long  whip  over  the  heads  of  his  four  horses, 
(four  horses!)  and  away  we  go  over  the  ruts 
and  through  the  dust-clouds,  while  the  'bus 
sings  merrily  with  the  voices  of  friends  and 
neighbors  dusty  and  hot  and  happy 

148 


THE  COUNTY  FAIR 

We  stand  together  in  the  early  twilight,  dear 
Child  of  my  Life-long  Dream,  upon  the  broad 
promenade  of  the  wonderful  Court  of  the  Kings. 
The  full  moon  gleams  yellow-white  in  the  deep 
purple  sky,  mirrored  in  the  placid  waters  of  the 
wide  lagoon.  Stately  columns  of  great  white  pal 
aces  are  silhouetted  against  the  starry  heavens; 
the  dome  of  the  Administration  Building  flares 
high  into  the  night  with  its  thousand  electric 
globes,  while  other  thousands  glow  like  fireflies 
throughout  the  acres  of  beautiful  buildings 
housing  exhibits  of  all  the  world.  Vast  gardens 
exhale  their  incomparable  perfume  upon  the 
air,  and  through  the  heavy  fragrance  the  notes 
of  a  mocking-bird  ring-out  in  a  glorious  burst 
of  melody  as  if  all  the  birds  of  the  fields  were 
here  foregathered  to  offer  each  his  song  in  lov 
ing  competition. 

It  is  all  very  wonderful,  to  stand  here  in  the 
midst  of  its  indescribable  glory,  feeling  the 
gentle  pressure  of  your  shoulder,  your  hand 
seeking  mine  in  the  silence — here  in  this  favored 
place  to  which  the  wide  world  has  sent  its 
choicest  fashionings,  the  most  perfect  of  its 
handiwork. 


149 


THE  LONG  AGO 

But  the  pressure  of  your  child-fingers  some 
how  blurs  the  splendor  of  this  place — the  flam 
ing  electric  dome  becomes  only  a  smoky  torch 
swaying  unsteadily  beside  a  popcorn-and-lem- 
onade  stand — the  stately  palaces  change  to 
loose  canvas  tents  and  low  wooden  sheds — the 
rich  harmonies  of  the  orchestra  merge  into  the 
crude  grind  of  a  merry-go-'round's  shrill  organ 
—and  all  the  myriad  wonders  of  Today's  beau 
tiful  World's  Fair  hark  back  to  their  simple 
brother  of  the  long  ago  whose  prize  was  not  the 
commerce  of  a  world,  but  just  the  blue  ribbon 
of  loving  rivalry  among  simple  folk  rejoicing 
in  the  co-operation  of  hand  and  heart. 

So  tonight  we  go  backwards  and  upwards, 
dear  child  of  mine,  to  the  County  Fair — back 
wards  to  its  smoky  torches  and  canvas  tents  and 
grinding  organs — but  upwards  and  onward  to 
the  spirit  of  simple  loving-kindness  and  human 
helpfulness  that  lifted  it  above  dingy  tents  and 
glorified  it  into  a  throbbing,  pulsating,  enduring 
Expression  of  Life. 


150 


Getting  in 
the  Wood 


AN  autumnal  event  of  importance,  second 
only  to  the  filling  of  the  meat-house,  was 
the  purchase  and  sawing  of  the  wood. 

Three  sizes,  remember — the  4-foot  lengths 
for  the  long,  low  stove  in  the  big  room,  12-inch 
"chunks"  for  the  oval  sheet-iron  stove  in  the 
parlor,  and  the  fine-split  18-inch  lengths  for  the 
kitchen.  (Yes,  they  burned  wood  in  the  kitchen 
—not  only  wood,  but  oak  and  maple  and  hick 
ory — the  kind  you  buy  by  the  carat  nowadays!) 

And  what  a  fire  it  made !  Two  sticks  of  the 
long  wood  in  the  stove  in  the  big  room,  and 
the  damper  open,  and  you'd  have  to  raise  the 
windows  inside  of  fifteen  minutes  no  matter 
how  low  the  thermometer  registered  outside. 
In  the  kitchen  grandmother  did  all  her  cooking 
with  a  wood  fire — using  the  ashes  for  the  lye 
barrel — and  the  feasts  that  came  steaming  from 
her  famous  oven  have  never  been  equalled  on 
any  gas-range  ever  made.  (Gas-range!  how 
grandmother  would  have  sniffed  in  scorn  at 

151 


THE  LONG  AGO 

such  a  suggestion ! )  Even  coal  was  only  fit  for 
the  base  burner  in  the  family  sitting-room — and 
that  must  be  anthracite,  or  "hard"  coal,  the  kind 
that  comes  in  sacks  nowadays  at  about  the  same 
price  as  butter  and  eggs.  And  even  the  wood 
had  to  be  split  just  so  and  be  "clear"  and  right, 
or  grandmother  would  scold  grandfather  for 
not  wearing  his  near-seeing  specs  when  he 
bought  it.  "Guess  they  fooled  you  on  that  load, 
Mr.  Van,"  she'd  say.  "It  isn't  like  the  last  we 
had." 

Don't  you  remember  how  you  were  hanging 
around  the  kitchen  one  Saturday  morning  kind- 
a  waiting  for  something  to  come  within  reach, 
and  grandfather's  cane  came  tap-tapping  down 
the  long  hall,  and  he  pushed  open  the  kitchen 
door  and  stood  there,  just  inside  the  door,  until 
the  kettle  started  boiling  over  and  making  such 
a  noise.  And  then  he  announced  that  he  thought 
he  better  go  out  and  see  if  there  was  any  wood 
in  market.  (As  if  there  weren't  fifty  farmers 
lined  up  there  almost  before  daylight ! )  It  was 
about  nine  o'clock  and  the  sun  had  had  a  chance 
to  warm  things  up  a  bit — so  grandmother 
wrapped  him  up  in  his  knitted  muffler  and  away 

152 


GETTING  IN  THE  WOOD 

he  went  beneath  his  shiny  silk  hat.  And  be 
cause  you  stood  around  and  looked  wistfully  up 
at  him,  he  finally  turned  back,  just  before  he 
reached  the  big  front  door  and  said:  "Want 
to  go  along,  Billie?"  Of  course  you  went,  be 
cause  there  were  all  kinds  of  shops  on  the  way 
up  town  to  the  wood  market  and  grandfather 
always  had  an  extra  nickle  for  such  occasions. 
Can't  you  just  see  that  wood-market  now, 
as  it  used  to  be  in  the  Long  Ago — with  its  big 
platform  scales — and  its  wagons  of  accurately- 
piled  cord-wood  marked  on  the  end  of  some 
stick  with  the  white  chalk-mark  of  the  official 
"inspector"  and  measurer-^-and  the  farmers  all 
bundled-up  and  tied-around  with  various  cold- 
dispelling  devices  and  big  mitts  and  fur  caps? 
So  far  as  you  could  tell  then  (or  now,  either, 
I'll  wager!)  every  load  was  exactly  like  every 
other  load — but  not  so  to  grandfather,  for  he 
would  scrutinize  them  all,  sound  them  with  his 
stick,  barter  and  dicker  and  look  out  for  knots 
—and  then  make  the  rounds  again  and  do  it  all 
over  before  finally  making  his  selection — and  I 
distinctly  remember  feeling  that  the  wood  left 
in  market  after  grandfather  had  made  his  selec 
tion  wasn't  worth  hauling  away! 

153 


THE  LONG  AGO 

Load  after  load  was  driven  up  to  the  high 
back-yard  fence  and  its  sticks  heaved  into  the 
yard  and  piled  in  perfect  order — and  it  made 
a  goodly  and  formidable  showing  when  Old 
Pete,  the  wood-sawyer,  finally  arrived  on  the 
scene.  The  time  of  wood-buying  was  deter 
mined  partly  by  Pete's  engagements — he  went 
first  to  the  Perkinses  and  next  to  the  Williamses 
and  so  on  in  rotation  as  he  had  done  for  years, 
his  entire  winter  being  "engaged"  far  ahead. 
It  did  not  seem  possible,  to  boyish  mind,  that 
one  man  could  ever  get  all  that  wood  sawed  and 
split,  even  if  he  was  a  great  giant  Norseman 
with  the  finest  buck-saw  in  the  country. 

But  each  year  Old  Pete's  prowess  seemed 
to  increase — and  day  after  day  the  ceaseless 
music  of  his  saw  sounded  across  the  crisp  air 
—and  the  measured  strokes  of  his  axe  struck  a 
clarion  note — until  finally  the  yard  showed  only 
chips  and  saw-dust  where  that  vast  wood-pile 
had  been — and  the  big  barn  was  piled  full  to 
the  rafters — the  kitchen  wood  and  chunks  on 
one  side,  the  big  wood  on  the  other. 

Then  Pete  would  come  in  and  announce 
that  the  job  was  done — and  grandfather  would 

164 


GETTING  IN  THE  WOOD 

bundle-up  and  go  out  for  a  final  inspection. 
Pete  removed  the  pad  from  his  leg  (you  re 
member  the  carpet  he  wore  on  his  left  knee — 
the  one  that  held  the  stick  in  place  in  the  buck 
when  he  was  sawing)  and  together  they  went 
into  the  barn — and  talked  it  all  over — and  Pete 
said  it  was  harder  wood  than  last  year's  and 
more  knots  in  it  and  ought  to  be  worth  two 
shillings  more  than  contract  price — and  grand 
father  finally  allowed  the  excess — and  Old  Pete 
came  in  and  got  his  money  (in  gold  and  silver) 
and  a  bowl  of  coffee  and  some  bread — and  went 
his  way  to  the  Joneses  or  some  other  folks. 

And  you,  young  man — you  surely  hated  to 
see  that  great  Viking  go — for  he  had  told  you 
many  a  wonderful  tale  at  the  noon  hour  as  he 
munched  his  thick  sandwiches — and  no  one 
could  look  at  his  massive  head  and  huge  shoul 
ders  and  great  beard  and  hair  and  doubt  that 
his  forebears  had  done  all  that  he  credited  to 
them. 

Somehow,  Old  Pete  seemed  more  real  than 
most  men  you  knew — except  grandfather,  of 
course.  There  was  something  unexplainable  in 
the  man  and  his  work  that  rang  true — some- 

165 


THE  LONG  AGO 

thing  that  was  so  wholesome  and  sound.  He 
wasn't  like  old  Hawkins,  the  grocer — he'd  as 
lief  give  you  a  rotten  apple  as  not  if  he  could 
smuggle  it  into  the  bag  without  you  seeing  him ; 
and  Kline  the  candy-man  sometimes  sold  you 
old  hard  stuff  mixed  with  the  fresh.  But  Old 
Pete  here — he  just  worked  honest  and  steady 
—out  in  the  open — at  a  fixed  wage — and  he  did 
an  honest  job  and  was  proud  of  it  even  if  it 
was  only  sawing  wood.  He  worked  faithfully 
until  it  was  done,  and  then  he  got  a  good  word 
and  a  bowl  of  coffee  and  his  wages  in  gold  and 
silver — and  went  his  way  rejoicing,  leaving  be 
hind  him  the  glory  of  labor  well  performed 
blending  with  the  refreshing  fragrance  of  new- 
cut  logs  that  sifted  through  the  cracks  of  the 
old  barn. 


156 


The 

Sugar 

Barrels 


DO  you  remember  the  three  barrels  of  sugar 
in  the  dark  place  under  the  stairs — or 
were  they  in  the  big  pantry  just  off  the  kitchen? 

Well,  anyway,  there  were  three,  you  recol 
lect — two  of  white  and  one  of  brown. 

Always  the  brown  sugar — and  each  Autumn 
the  same  colloquy: 

"Mr.  Van,  don't  you  think  we  can  get  along 
without  the  brown  sugar  this  year?" 

"Now,  Mrs.  Van,  you've  got  to  have  a  little 
brown  sugar  in  the  house — and  it  comes  cheaper 
by  the  barrel." 

"Yes,  so  it  does,  Mr.  Van  .  .  .  We  can 
use  it,  I  suppose,  in  something  .  .  .  And  we 
always  have  had  it,  and  .  .  .  Well,  do  as 
you  think  best." 

White  sugar  was  good  when  you  had  some 
thing  to  go  with  it. 

But  brown  sugar  stood  alone — sticky,  heavy, 
crumbly  lumps  that  held  together  until  a  fellow 

157 


THE  LONG  AGO 

could  tip  back  his  head  and  drop  one  of  the 
chunks  in  his  mouth. 

And  after  school  grandmother  could  be  per 
suaded  to  cut  a  full-size  slice  of  bread  (thick) 
and  spread  it  with  butter  (thick)  and  you'd 
start  away  with  it  (quick) — just  nibbling  at  one 
edge,  not  really  biting — and  you'd  sneak  into 
the  dark  place  under  the  stairs  (or  into  the 
pantry) — and  reach  deep  down  into  the  white 
sugar  barrel — and  grab  a  handful — and  sprin 
kle  it  over  the  bread-and-butter — and  shake 
back  into  the  barrel  all  that  didn't  stick  to  the 
butter — and  then  do  it  all  over  again — and  pat 
it  down  hard — and  then  sprinkle  just  a  little  bit 
more  on  hurriedly,  (because  grandfather's  cane 
could  be  heard  tapping  down  the  hall) — and 
then  you  emerged  with  dignity,  but  with  no  un 
necessary  commotion — and  just  faded  away 
into  the  Outer  World  so  softly,  so  gently,  so 
contentedly!  .  .  . 

(Have  you  tried  any  bread-and-butter-and- 
sugar  recently?  Did  it  taste  the  same  as  it  used 
to?  ... 

No?    ...    Perhaps  you  broke  it  into  pieces 

158 


instead  of  beginning  at  one  side  and  eating 
straight  through? 

Or  maybe  you  got  hold  of  the  cooking  but 
ter  ...  Or  did  you  try  it  with  baker's 
bread?  .  .  . 

No?  .  .  .  Well,  why  didn't  it  taste  the 
same?) 


159 


"Only  a  strong  man  can  go  back 
over  the  old  road  to  the  beginning 
point. " 


The  Old  Bell 

GRANDFATHER  VAN  ALSTYNE  kept  a 
tavern.  It  was  called  the  Exchange  Hotel, 
located  on  one  of  the  four  main  business  cor 
ners  of  the  town,  directly  across  from  the  post- 
office  and  the  bank.  And  it  was  more  than  a 
hotel — the  Commercial  House  filled  that  place 
—it  was  a  home  known  far  and  wide  for  the 
indescribable  but  never-to-be-forgotten  excel 
lence  of  its  cuisine,  the  generosity  of  its  por 
tions,  the  warmth  and  genuineness  of  its  hospi 
tality  and  the  unique  personality  of  its  host. 

Grandmother  furnished  the  cuisine,  the 
generosity  of  its  portions,  and  the  unchanging 
hospitality — in  a  word,  she  made  the  home.  It 
will  be  noted  that  grandmother  was  a  consid 
erable  factor  in  the  Exchange  Hotel — a  factor 
which  began  working  about  4:30  or  5  o'clock 


161 


THE  LONG  AGO 

every  morning — in  summer  when  the  first  faint 
streaks  of  daylight  showed  in  the  east,  and  in 
winter  when  her  own  home-made  sperm  candles 
lighted  her  labors — and  continued  without  rest 
until  9:30  or  10  o'clock  at  night.  She  was 
seldom  seen  in  the  front  part  of  the  house — an 
occasional  visit  to  the  "office"  if  she  knew  Mr. 
Van  was  there  alone,  once  in  a  while  a  few 
moments  in  the  "parlor,"  when  Will  Hoard  or 
Frank  Spearman  or  some  other  favorite  guest 
had  arrived.  Her  long  hours  were  spent  in  her 
own  domain — the  kitchen  and  dining-room, 
and  at  night  in  the  back  sitting-room  by  the  big 
base-burner  or  at  the  round  red-cloth-covered 
table  which  held  the  large  black  Bible. 

Grandfather  Van  supplied  the  unique  per 
sonality — a  compelling  influence  in  the  institu 
tion,  indeed.  It  is  related,  upon  undoubted 
authority  (this  tale  with  others  of  like  quality 
is  almost  a  legend  in  the  Little  Old  Town,  and 
thereabouts)  that  a  traveling  man,  a  stranger, 
once  applied  for  lodging  and  demanded  to  be 
shown  the  bed  he  was  to  occupy.  Grandfather, 
as  his  custom  was,  escorted  him  upstairs  and 
opened-up  the  bedroom.  The  stranger  immed- 

162 


lately  attacked  the  bed,  pulled  down  its  sheets 
and  comforts,  examined  it  minutely  and  finally 
smelled  of  its  sheets  from  headboard  to  foot. 
Grandfather  watched  the  performance  in  si 
lence.  When  the  stranger  announced  that 
apparently  the  bed  was  clean  and  he'd  take  the 
room,  grandfather  requested  him  to  take  off 
his  clothes,  right  then  and  there.  And  when 
the  thoroughly  surprised  stranger  demanded 
the  reason  for  the  unusual  request,  grandfather 
said  he  wished  to  see  whether  the  man  was 
clean  enough  to  be  worthy  of  the  bed!  It  is 
further  related  that  the  stranger  slept  elsewhere 
that  night! 

In  the  hallway  that  led  to  the  dining-room 
there  stood  a  hat-rack — a  long  wooden  affair 
with  two  shelves,  you  remember  the  kind.  At 
one  end,  on  the  lower  shelf,  there  was  a  large 
brass  dinner-bell,  with  a  wooden  handle.  It 
was  always  in  that  one  place — as  certain  to  be 
just  exactly  there  as  the  sun  was  to  rise.  The 
penalty  for  its  displacement  was  too  well  under 
stood  to  be  incurred. 

Every  day  of  every  year  for  a  half-century 
or  more,  exactly  at  12  o'clock  noon,  grand- 

163 


THE  LONG  AGO 

mother  appeared  at  the  door  of  the  office  and 
told  Mr.  Van  dinner  was  ready,  and  went 
quickly  back  to  her  post.  Every  day  of  every 
year,  for  a  half-century,  at  that  hour,  Grand 
father  Van  took  the  old  bell  to  the  front  door 
of  the  Exchange  Hotel  and  swung  it  in  a  semi 
circle,  from  shoulder  to  knee  and  shoulder, 
while  its  heavy  clapper  struck  a  clarion  note 
that  echoed  and  re-echoed  up  and  down  the 
streets  of  the  village. 

When  the  sound  of  that  old  brass  bell 
reached  the  community,  its  message  could  not 
fail  to  be  understood.  If  ever  a  bell  talked, 
that  bell  did.  And  if  ever  a  people  could  in 
terpret  the  voice  of  a  voiceless  mould  of  brass, 
that  people  could.  As  plain  as  the  printed 
words  on  this  page,  it  said:  "Dinner  is  ready, 
dinner  is  ready — at  the  hotel,  Exchange  Hotel 
— dinner  is  ready,  a  good  dinner,  too — the  best 
for  the  price,  in  the  state,  in  the  state — dinner 
is  ready,  dinner  is  ready — dinner  is  read —  .  .  . 
dinner  is  ...  dinner  .  .  .  din  .  .  .  di 
.  .  .  d  .  ..  !" 

And  when  the  old  bell  was  put  back  in  its 
place  on  the  hat-rack,  it  invariably  gave  a  last 

164 


THE  OLD  BELL 

muffled  wood-deadened  clangle,  of  satisfaction 
as  it  settled  to  rest  that  clearly  spoke  its  knowl 
edge  of  a  job  well  and  thoroughly  done.  If 
benighted  mortals  failed  to  respond,  it  was  their 
loss — of  a  good  meal;  but  its  duty  had  been 
performed. 

The  note  of  that  old  bell  was  much  more 
than  the  sound  of  iron  clapper  upon  tinkling 
brass.  It  was  a  Voice — the  voice  of  an  institu 
tion  that  was  as  much  a  part  of  the  life  of  the 
village  as  was  the  town  clock  or  the  fire  engine 
bell  or  the  town  band  or  the  tolling  of  the 
church  bell.  Its  message  was  a  message  of  Life 
— of  two  lives  moving  on  and  on  together 
through  the  struggling  years,  of  two  loves 
blending  graciously  from  the  morning  of  youth 
through  the  high  noon  of  maturity  and  into  the 
night  of  age — a  message  of  daily  duty  and  un 
remitting  toil,  of  ministry  and  of  devotion — of 
the  upbuilding  of  an  institution  making  for  it 
self  a  worth-while  place  in  the  world.  The 
tones  of  that  bell  were  never  uncertain,  its 
message  'was  never  indefinite.  Always,  until 
the  hands  of  its  master-ringer  were  stilled  upon 
his  white  coverlet,  it  spoke  with  authority,  as 

165 


THE  LONG  AGO 

one  who  knows  that  he  knows  and  bids  the 
whole  world  test  the  quality  of  his  work. 

And  those  who  accepted  its  clarion  in 
vitation  through  that  half-century  came  half- 
joyfully,  half-reverently,  and  all  respectfully. 
They  came  sordidly  expectant  of  the  savory 
things  that  grandmother's  hands  and  helpers 
prepared — but  they  came  more  to  receive  the 
benediction  of  her  sweet  presence,  the  comfort 
of  that  home's  matchless  hospitality,  and  the 
refreshment  of  a  half-hour's  meeting  with 
friends  who  chaffed  and  gossiped,  or  with  the 
stranger  who  brought  tidings  and  tales  from 
the  big  world  outside. 

No  single  item  upon  Memory's  tablet  affects 
me  quite  the  same  way  as  the  old  bell — no 
sound  has  carried  through  the  years  quite  so 
clearly  as  its  sound.  In  the  boyhood  time  I 
thought  it  was  my  insatiable  appetite  that  made 
me  love  its  ringing — but  in  the  after-years  I  find 
that  I,  too,  caught  its  message  whose  interpre 
tation  was  withheld  from  me  then,  but  opened 
to  me  now. 

Occasionally  —  very  occasionally  —  grand 
father  permitted  me  to  ring  the  bell — and  right 

166 


THE  OLD  BELL 

this  minute  I  can  feel  the  same  awe  I  knew  then 
as  I  marched  to  the  front  door  lugging  it  in  both 
hands — I  can  hear  my  same  childish  gurgle  of 
joy  as  of  possession  of  something  long  cherished 
but  ever  renounced.  I  can  feel  grandfather's 
presence  beside  me  on  the  door-step — even  the 
faint  fragrance  of  his  long  broadcloth  coat 
seems  here — as  I  struggled  bravely  but  inade 
quately  with  the  ponderous  thing  of  brass  and 
iron.  And  I  can  see  him  now,  when  my  boy 
hands  failed  to  send  forth  its  wonted  message, 
stoop  and  take  the  bell  and  start  his  famous 
semi-circle  that  made  the  shoemaker  drop  his 
awl,  the  postmaster  lay  down  his  glasses,  and 
the  traveling-man  lock-up  his  sample  room  to 
seek  a  tin  basin  and  the  roller  towel  and  an 
early  seat  at  grandmother's  long  table. 


Downstairs  in  the  dining-room  there  is  a 
wonderful  dinner  bell  that  came  from  a  palace 
in  the  Land  of  the  Cherry  Blossom.  It  has 
several  gongs  of  varying  sizes,  each  marvelously 
wrought  to  give-forth  its  soft  but  far-reaching 
cadence,  and  all  of  their  tones  so  beautifully 
blended  that  when  the  deft  fingers  of  our  Jap- 

167 


THE  LONG  AGO 

anese  maid  touch  each  gong  with  the  chamois 
ball,  there  floats  through  the  house  a  harmony 
of  sound  like  the  far-off  serenade  of  a  fairy 
band.  No  more  perfectly  modulated  and  at 
tuned  invitation  to  a  feast  could  possibly  be 
devised. 

But  tonight,  as  I  rose  from  the  work-table 
in  my  room  to  answer  its  summons,  that  had 
gradually  floated  away  into  the  night,  I  went 
to  a  corner  in  a  nearby  bookshelf — a  corner 
almost  like  that  in  the  old  hat-rack  in  grand 
father's  hall — and  reverently  lifted  the  old 
dinner  bell — yes,  the  self-same  bell  that  my 
boy  hands  struggled  with,  strangely  come  back 
to  me  after  all  these  years  and  cherished  beyond 
any  other  single  earthly  possession  of  mine 
.  .  .  gently  I  swung  it  to  left  and  right— 
and  as  its  clapper  touched  the  brass  with  the 
old-time  spirit  and  comradeship,  and  its  same 
old  loved  tones  struck  strong  and  true  upon  the 
air,  the  great  orchestras  and  song  melodies  of  a 
lifetime  were  forgotten,  the  wonderful  modu 
lations  and  blending  of  the  Japanese  gong 
downstairs  vanished  in  an  instant,  the  ache  of 
the  long  weary  years  dropped  away — and  again 

168 


THE  OLD  BELL 

I  stood  beside  grandfather  on  the  front  door 
step,  my  boy  hand  clutching  the  corner  of  his 
broadcloth  coat,  my  little  tummy  rejoicing  in 
anticipation  of  an  early  and  adequate  filling, 
my  ears  tingling  with  the  reverberations  of  the 
old  bell  in  those  master-hands  sending  forth  its 
clarion  message  of  life  and  love  and  labor  and 
a  Thing  Well  Done. 


AFTER  all,  Romance  and  Fact  are  but  twin 
children,  hardly  distinguishable  one  from 
the  other,  playing  together  in  the  clover-field 
of  life. 

The  story  of  "The  Old  Bell"  has  had  so  in 
teresting  a  finis  that  it  seems  proper  to  here 
append  it,  changing  only  names  that  would 
identify  the  persons  mentioned. 

Robert  Spenner  was  the  factotum  around 
Grandfather  Van  Alstyne's  place.  He  was  com 
bination  gardener,  hired  man,  mender  of  tools, 
path-clearer  in  winter,  side-walk  sweeper  in 
summer  and  general  utility  man — a  quaint 
character  who  might  have  stepped  out  of  a 
Charles  Dickens  novel.  When  the  Van  Alstyne 
home  was  broken  up  and  sold  after  the  passing 

169 


THE  LONG  AGO 

of  grandfather  and  grandmother,  the  bell  which 
Grandfather  Van  had  used  so  many  years,  was 
given  to  old  Robert. 

His  daughter  married  and  went  with  her 
husband  to  their  farm  in  Kansas,  where  they 
prospered  abundantly. 

Subsequently,  about  1879,  old  Robert  was 
lured  to  the  Black  Hills  by  the  gold  discoveries 
there,  and  stopped  enroute  to  visit  his  daughter 
and  her  husband,  Mr.  Prince,  on  their  Kansas 
farm.  He  carried  the  old  bell,  his  treasured 
keep-sake — to  which  Mr.  Prince  took  a  great 
fancy,  and  induced  old  Robert  to  leave  it  on 
the  farm.  There  is  has  remained  for  40  years, 
in  daily  use  around  the  house. 

The  author  of  THE  LONG  AGO  and  his 
mother,  surviving  members  of  the  Van  Alstyne 
household,  lost  all  track  of  the  old  bell  after  it 
was  given  to  Spenner,  and  heard  nothing  of 
him  or  the  bell  for  nearly  half  a  century.  In 
1916,  when  the  first  edition  of  THE  LONG 
AGO  was  published,  a  copy  was  sent  to  Mrs. 
Buckman,  a  school-girl  and  lifelong  friend  of 
the  author's  mother.  Mrs.  Buckman  was  then 
under  the  care  of  a  trained  nurse,  Miss  Nevin, 

170 


THE  OLD  BELL 

to  whom  she  loaned  a  copy  of  the  book  and 
supplemented  its  stories  with  some  of  her  own 
personal  reminiscences,  among  them  Grand 
father  Van  Alstyne's  custom  of  ringing  the  old 
bell. 

By  one  of  those  interesting  coincidences 
with  which  life  sometimes  plays  surprising 
pranks  upon  its  children,  Miss  Nevin  chanced 
to  be  the  niece  of  Mr.  Prince — and  when  she 
related  the  incident  to  her  mother,  she  was  told 
that  the  Old  Bell  was  still  in  existence,  and  in 
daily  use  on  the  farm  of  Miss  Nevin's  uncle. 
She  immediately  wrote  to  Mr.  Prince,  and  at 
the  same  time  Mrs.  Buckman  wrote  to  the 
author,  telling  him  of  the  strange  discovery  of 
the  Old  Bell. 

Correspondence  followed  between  Mr. 
Prince  and  the  author — and  one  glad  April 
morning  there  was  delivered  to  the  author  a 
wooden  box  containing  the  dear  old  bell  .  .  . 
"Yes,  the  selfsame  bell  that  my  boy  hands  strug 
gled  with,  strangely  come  back  to  me  after  all 
these  years  and  cherished  beyond  any  other 
single  earthly  possession  of  mine." 

It  stands  on  the  mantel  of  my  private  office 

171 


THE  LONG  AGO 

today,  beside  the  old-time  India  ink  portrait  of 
its  master-ringer  of  the  long  ago — proclaiming 
the  generosity  and  renunciation  of  him  who  has 
loved  it  and  used  it  for  40  years — keeping  ever 
alive  the  memory  of  him  whose  arm  swung  it 
daily  at  the  front  door  through  the  half -century 
that  it  sent  forth  its  message  of  "life  and  love 
and  labor  and  a  Thing  Well  Done" — and  a 
priceless  heritage  to  the  little  boy  who  can 
"still  feel  grandfather's  presence  on  the  door 
step,  the  texture  of  his  wonderful  broadcloth 
coat,  the  precious  comfort  of  his  knees  and  en 
circling  arms,  and  the  quietness  and  glory  of 
his  upright,  unafraid  and  unselfed  life." 


172 


When  Day  is  Done 

IF  the  page  blurs,  as  it  may  do  if  you  were 
ever  a  child  and  if  you  have  been  tempered 
in  the  cruel  furnace  of  the  years,  maybe  the 
mists  that  fill  the  eyes  will  bathe  the  soul  of 
you  in  their  hallowed  flood  until  the  world-ache 
is  soothed,  and  you  can  start  up  the  big  road 
again  with  some  of  the  same  wonderful  exulta 
tion  that  sped  you  onward  and  forward  in  the 
Long  Ago  .  .  .  One  touch  of  that,  and  the 
burden  of  Today,  grown  great  in  the  years  of 
struggle,  slips  from  your  shoulders  as  lightly 
as  the  wild-rose  petal  drops  upon  the  bosom 
of  the  stream  and  floats  away  to  the  music  of 
the  riffles. 

Only  a  strong  man  can  go  back  over  the 
Old  Road  to  the  beginning-point — facing  the 
memories  that  throng  the  path — meeting  the 
surging  emotions  that  sweep  away  all  our  care 
fully-laid  defenses — braving  the  grim  'spectre 
that  puts  the  white  seal  of  age  upon  our  heads. 


173 


THE  LONG  AGO 

Once  more,  in  the  cool  of  the  late  twilight, 
we'll  sit  with  chin  in  hand  on  grandfather's 
front  steps  and  watch  the  stars  come  out  .  .  . 
and  hear  the  loon  calling  weirdly  across  the 
water  .  .  .  and  catch  the  perfume  of  the 
lilacs  and  narcissus  from  the  garden  .  .  . 
and  gather  at  grandmother's  knee  to  feel  her 
soft  fingers  in  our  curls  and  hear  her  bedtime 
story.  Half  asleep,  but  ever  reluctant,  we  will 
trudge  stumblingly  to  the  little  room  with  its 
deep  feather  bed,  and  get  into  our  red-flannel 
nightie.  Down  on  our  knees,  with  our  face  in 
the  soft  edges  of  the  mattress  and  tiny  hands 
uplifted,  we  will  say  our  prayers,  and  end  them 
in  the  same  old  way:  "God  bless  father  and 
mother,  and  grandfather  and  grandmother  .  .  . 
and  ev-ery-body  .  .  .  else  in  ...  the 
world  .  .  .  amen  .  .  ."  and  feel  those 
strong  mother-arms  lifting  our  sleepy  form  in 
to  the  downy  depths. 

Never  until  now  have  we  known  the  reality 
of  the  boy-days,  or  paused  to  receive  their  hal 
lowed  touch. 

Grandfather  and  grandmother,  and  the 
garden,  and  the  river,  and  the  song  of  the  robin 

174 


WHEN  DAY  IS  DONE 

in  the  apple-tree,  and  all  the  myriad  exper 
iences  of  the  boy-time,  are  glorified  now  as 
never  before.  In  the  halcyon  Then  they  were 
but  incidents  of  the  day;  in  the  mellowed  Now 
we  learn  the  truth  of  them,  and  catch  their  won 
drous  meaning. 

The  flower  blossoms  are  gleaming  as  color 
ful  and  fragrant  today  as  they  did  in  the  Long 
Ago.  The  bird-songs  are  as  tuneful  now  as 
they  were  then.  The  sun  is  shining  just  as 
golden  and  as  genial  this  moment  as  it  did  when 
we  sat  on  the  beams  of  the  mill-race  and  felt 
on  our  faces  the  spray  of  tumbling  waters  sun- 
warmed  in  the  air. 

We  need  only  open  our  hearts  and  let  the 
sun-shine  in! 

And  Youth  and  Age,  blended  and  rejoicing, 
will  go  hand  in  hand  along  the  path  of  life  to 
its  far  goal  bestowing  upon  us  all  the  freshness 
of  the  dew-damp  morning,  all  the  vigor  of  the 
strenuous  noon,  and  all  the  peace  and  calm 
assurance  of  the  star-lit  night. 


175 


The  Yellow  Rose 

WITH  what  strange  hand  does  Chance,  or 
Destiny,  sweep  the  chord  of  Life  to 
awaken  its  harmonies! 

When  they  "packed  my  trunk  and  sent  me 
off  to  college"  the  Yellow  Rose,  all  thorn-cov 
ered,  was  forgotten — for  in  youth  all  our  won 
derful  Yesterdays  are  blotted-out  by  the  glare 
of  alluring  Tomorrows. 

From  that  long-ago  day  until  now,  and  in 
wanderings  far  and  wide,  there  has  never  come 
into  my  life  another  yellow  rose-bush  of  its 
kind.  I  recall  that  it  was  a  plebean,  little 
esteemed  even  by  The  Garden's  charitable 
mistress,  and  it  seemed  to  have  retreated,  with 

characteristic  modesty,  into  the  oblivion  which 
shrouds  many  extinct  blossoms  of  the  past. 

But  yesterday  morning,  scarcely  one  sunset 
behind  the  joyous  return  of  the  Old  Bell,  upon 
my  desk  was  a  Yellow  Rose,  left  by  unseen 
hands.  Just  one  full-blown  blossom  upon  its 

177 


THE  LONG  AGO 

short,  thorny  stem,  and  a  few  tight-folded  buds, 
and  over-much  foliage  of  tiny,  dark-green 
leaves.  In  form,  it  was  identical  with  that 
loved  bush  of  Boyhood — but  it  seemd  too  won 
derful  to  be  real!  Yet  there,  on  the  mantel, 
stood  the  Old  Bell,  and  its  never-forgotten  tone 
was  still  ringing  from  the  stroke  of  my  knuckle 
upon  its  edge  only  a  few  hours  ago.  So,  rever 
ently  and  almost  fearfully,  I  lifted  the  yellow 
blossom  to  my  face — and  instantly  Doubt  fled 
as  the  peculiar  and  unforgetable  fragrance,  all 
its  own,  swept  away  the  years  .  .  .  "and  I 
stood  again  where  the  Yellow  Rose,  all  thorn- 
covered,  lifted  its  sunny  top  above  the  picket 
fence,  plucked  its  choicest  blossom,  put  it  al 
most  apologetically  and  ashamed  into  the  but 
tonhole  of  my  jacket,  stuffed  my  hands  into  my 
pockets  and  went  whistling  down  the  street, 
with  the  yellow  rose-tint  and  the  sunlight  and 
the  curls  on  my  child  head  all  shining  in  har 
mony." 

So  wonderfully  does  Chance,   or  Destiny, 
time  its  work ! 


As  strangely  as  the  old  bell  returned  to  me 

178 


THE  YELLOW  ROSE 

— as  sweetly  as  my  first  flower-love  came  back 
and  filled  the  office  with  its  sunshine  that  April 
morning — so  Life  itself  was  restored.  In  its 
new  touch  was  Something  that  brought  back 
the  deep  blue  to  the  evening  sky,  that  again 
exhaled  the  perfume  from  the  spring-time 
violet-beds,  that  sounded  once  more  the  clarion 
lilt  of  the  meadow-lark  on  his  post,  and  awak 
ened  all  the  loved  voices  that  had  so  thrilled 
me  before  the  Night  dropped  down. 

And  so,  dear  Unnamed  Dream  Child  of 
mine,  silent  comrade  of  the  unremembered 
Long  Ago,  the  blessed  Now  and  the  Forever 
After,  whose  unknown  hand  found  my  Yellow 
Rose  and  laid  it  here  to  greet  me,  in  deepest 
gratitude  this  book  is  dedicated.  My  gift  is 
offered  without  apology — for  whatever  the 
craftsmanship,  it  carries  to  you  the  fragrance 
of  the  choicest  flower  in  all  the  great  Garden 
of  Life. 


179 


HERE  THE  BOOK  ENDS. 
THE  STORY,  PERCHANCE, 
GOES  ON.  NOT  ALL  THE 
THINGS  YOU  REMEMBER 
ARE  HERE  SET  DOWN, 
FOR  IF  THEY  WERE  IT 
WOULD  BE  MY  BOOK — 
AND  IT  WAS  MEANT  TO 
BE  YOURS.  IF  THESE 
PAGES  HAVE  STIRRED 
DEAR  MEMORIES  SO  THAT 
YOU  MAY  GO  ON  WITH 
THE  STORY — YOUR  STORY 
IT  IS  ENOUGH. 


